THE RED HOUSE

..
 ········D··
DODD
THE
R E D ...... .
HOUSE
D D II II D'

by Else Jerusalem

Translated by
R. I. MARCHANT

New York, The Macaulay Company

UNIVERSITY· OF OMAHA
CoPYBIGBT, 1982, BY
To MACAVLA.Y CoMPANY

l'irBt printing, JanuaTY, 198!

Second printing, Karch, 1981

PlliNTiiD IN THE UNITED STATES 01' AMERICA

 TO YOU

DANCING MAIDENS, LAUGHING BRIDES, HAPPY MOTHERS,

TO You THIS BOOK.

Look from your sunlit height into the black depths below..
Pity .. .. . where you have so long condemned.
Think . . . where you have all too long passed unheeding.
Let your compassion touch them gently) these victims of
your happiness.
:a on n rrcro a oa zns oolS a oolS a n ro a o0061S ooon aa oTo a oll

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

ooooogogooooooooooogoooooooooooooooooooogooooo,

Under the title "The Sacred Scarabeus," this important

novel has for a number of years held a high place in
European literature. Dealing as it does with the life of the
inmates of a brothel, it required a change in our social atti·
tudes before the book could be presented to the American
public. It is now given American publication in the faith
that its sincerity and the dignity of its presentation will
avert from it charges of sensationalism.
On its publication in Europe not a single review
appeared that questioned its truth, its sincerity, or its
basic good taste. It is there considered the classic in its
field and we are confident it will be so considered in
America. As a novel, it won respect for its characterization,
its narrative skill and the humanity of its outlook; as a
social document, it won respect for its keen relentless
probing of a social situation.
The book can be useful in America as it has been in
Europe. No treatment of brothel life has its scope or direct-
ness. It is the record of a spirited woman who avenged
her betrayal in the only way she knew; of her daughter
brought up in the brothel and knowing no home, no other
life, no other standards than those of the brothel; of the
house itself in its evolution from dive to a modish place
of assignation and back to dive; of the officials who fat-
vii
 ...
Vlll PUBLISHER'S NOTE
tened on its bribes; of its respectable, sometimes church·
member owners and housekeepers; of its customers who
victimized and were the victims of its inmates.
There is, aside from its social values, an epical quality
about the book. It has the breadth and human compre·
hension of a saga novel; and in its effectiveness and artistic
power it ranks with the greatest.

l
t

I
j
:1 aaoooens n ooooera oocnro oooooens ooooooooooon oooor

CONTENTS

JJI o o u.o o o o o o_o o o_o o QJlQ u u OJlQ u u o o o_o_o u o o o o o 0J1 o.

BooK ONE-BLACK KATRINE 0

• • • • • • 9
BooK Two-SALON GoLDSCHEIDER. • • • • • 54
BooK THREE-THE PHILosoPHER. • • • • • 8g

BooK Foua-SALON MILLER • • • • • • • 182

BooK FIVE-EXPElliENCES 0
• • • • • • • J88

BooK Sxx-SoLITUDE • • • • • • • • • 258

BooK SEVEN-THE SPIZZARI SYSTEM • • • • • 284
THE RED HOUSE
1l oo6 ooCl4 C)6 ooOOTO oOlJ m oo6lJ 611 OlJ oOlJ oooOOb"Cb 0 0 cnr

BOOK ONE-BLACK KATRINE

JUI a o o_o OJUt.Q u QJLO o o OJLO o_o o o__o o_o Q..R o on OJlO o o o Q..O o o..oa t.

§t

JuST around the corner from the city's glowing heart,

from broad clean pavements, bright lights, alluring shop
windows, gay promenading throngs, startlingly near it all
begins the Realm of Darkness. Past the side of a handsome
modem luxury shop, another sharp turn and it opens out
before you, the nameless alley, short, dark, closed at its
farther end by high stone walls. Twilight elsewhere is
gloomy night here. The houses shrink in on themselves,
doorways disappear in shadow; and a single red lantern,
sad travesty of the brightness just beyond, encloses its
immediate vicinity in a circle of blood. Here and there,
in low dusty windows, dim lights appear. Pale flames, they
beckon, plead . . . silent guideposts.
But when the gay streets beyond are deserted, the laugh·
ing strollers gone home, pomp of show window veiled in
gray curtain, then life awakens in the alley, hungrily open-
ing sleep-drugged eyes. Windows fly open, rusty door-
hinges screech, the air is full of chatter and laughter.
Clouds of musk, of violet, float upward; there is rustle of
silken skirt, gleam of gold and bright stones as gay-garbed
forms hurry through the nameless alley, fleeing its gloom.
Painted lips trilling a merry song. Swaying hips, eyes
eedily glowing, quailing at first before the sharp lights;
9
 10 THE RED HOUSE
.
besto' ng smiles frozen into a grimace . . . thus the
dal.' hters of darkness swarm out into the brightness

The Love Mart is on.

/ Those who sell wait for those who buy. They do not
wait long. From all sides they come, from mother,
betrothed, wife . . . from wine or from study, from
dance-hall or from church . . . what matters whence they
come? But they come. There are greetings, smothered
laughter . . . bargainings amid sighs of longing. The
passive patience of the harlot conquers, with the aid of
hot desire.
Coat collars up, the men follow their guides back into
the nameless alley. For fleeting seconds the single lan-
tern's red blood rests, questing, on $trange faces.
Then darkness settles down over those who venture into
her kingdom.
§2
Bv day the alley lies quiet, sleeping behind drawn cur-
tains. No happy children play here in this dwelling-place
of vice and its outlaw henchmen . . . here in this haven
for those whom society casts out. Thieves and their fences,
yeggs, swindlers, crimps . . . they gather here in the low·
ceilinged smoky barrooms. The most popular is kept by
Mama Zimmerman, of wide if bad repute. Here come.
stepping cautiously, men with well-filled pockets, boasting
to the girls who fawn on them, stare admiringly. The men
throw bills about, brag with glimpses of gems and gold,
forget their caution, shout and sing . . . until one day an
iron hand clamps down on their necks and silences them.
Girls under police control fill the wretched little houses.
It matters not how shabby, dank, sordid the shelter, there
are ahvays tenants. The neighborhood offers good business
and the alley is seldom raided. Landladies stand in well
 THE RED HOUSE
watching a chance to speak to pretty middle-class girls who
seemed strangers in the city. Sometimes she struck it right
. . . sometimes quite otherwise. Still, in the course of time
she had built up a nice little business. The alley's excel-
lent location, so near the city's heart, meant good profits.
Lorinser had friends among the police and could give the
girls valuable tips.
She kept a tiny basement shop, presided over by her old
mother. The crone sat there, day after day, amid a con-
fusion of shelves and boxes piled high with garments of
all kinds, soaps, perfumes, well-worn books, obscene pic-
tures, mirrors, incense-burners. Most of it left by former
boarders, or taken in payment of bad debts. Among the
tangle of inanimate things hung a pretty cage containing
a shabby discouraged little canary. The pet of his former
owner, he had been left behind with the rest of her
meager belongings. Now the poor little mite heard no
caressing words, only harsh cursing when the greedy house-
keeper's eye fell on the "useless eater." Unhappy, half-fed,
he could not sing and no one wanted him.
In all the overfull Red House, only one pair of eyes saw
the tragedy of this tiny lost existence. They were big,
gray, intelligent eyes, and they belonged to a little girl
of not more than six years. On warm spring days the
cage was hung outside the door and the little girl, clad
in ill-fitting and oddly assorted garments, would stand
and watch the bird as it flitted timidly from perch to
perch. . . .
Gently a little brown finger would worm its way
between the wires. "Sing . . . do sing . . ." a soft voice
pleaded.
But the canary sought the meager crumbs and only
peeped faintly.
"Scared, aren't you?" thought the little girl. .. Mother
. - all the time, but Mother's not afraid of her ..•"
..1.6. . . .
 THE RED HOUSE
once she said it aloud, did little Milada, and drew down
blows upon herself. From Mrs. Lorinser, who hated the
"Bohemian trash"; then from Milada's own mother, Black
Katrine, who gave the little thing a hearty shaking, her
full red 1ips wreathed in smiles. . . . Then, having done
her duty, she leaned from her window throwing trills of
laughter down on the very ears of the raging Lorinser.
Turning back to her friend Janka, silently busy in the
kitchen, "Cute little brat, eh? Sits up and spits. . . ."
"Like you," answered Janka with a sigh.
"Might be worse," Black Katrine's tone was scornful
as she stretched her slender fine-limbed body . . . "Let
her learn to spit on them all . . . same as I do. . . ."
A pleading look from the softer eyes was crushed
beneath her own threatening glare. Katrine shook her-
self like an annoyed cat and went into her own room.
When Janka was in this ''holy mood" she was better left;
alone. . . .
Black Katrine alone, of all Red House dwellers, en-
joyed a partial independence of the Lorinser dictatorship.
With her friend Janka, and her little daughter Milada,
Katrine lived in a separate apartment, one room, kitchen
and pantry, for lvhich she paid quarterly rent direct to
the owner. Rumor had it that her former relations lvith
the Major were reason for her autonomy. The janitress
was compelled to endure this infringement of her rights
as best she could. She \Vas powerless before Katrine's
bright laughter.
Katrine was a finely built woman of resilient slender-
ness, pronounced Slav type with gray cat-bright eyes, and
a wide, sweet, sensuous mouth, dominating the entire face
with its melancholy charm. She was reserved, solitary,
made no friends in the house, took no part in the festivi-
ties or quarrels of the others. They called her proud, but
it was not the truth. She was merely apathetic, nothin
 THE RED HOUSE
interested her. Not even fine clothes or jewels. She was
beautiful, popular with "customers,, earned much but
Jet the money slide through her fingers like water. .. .
When Janka questioned, "Where does it go?" she would
answer, "I don't know . . . must be a hole in my
. . .u then she laughed, hard metallic bell-tones.
• All day long she lay idle, uninterested, looked on at
Janka's scrubbing, cleaning, cooking for them all, and
sometimes talked to herself, eyes half-open, neither wait-
ing nor caring for an answer. ". . . like to lie here . . .
not do a thing . . . not eat or sleep . . . just die . . .
for sleepiness . . . Oh hey, Jan . . . life's too stupid . . .
not worth lifting a finger . . . it's all the same . . . our
kind might be dead already for all it matters . . . you
just keep on living because you have to, don't you? . . .
Well . . . once we say we don't want to live, then we die
... were , done f or. . . ."
Janka peeled potatoes, dropped them with a plump into
the water. The aroma of good coffee filled the kitchen.
From the other room, where Katrine's fine big bed was
airing, came the chill of fresh autumn breezes. . . .
"Don't work, Janka. Your hands are red and coarse
enough already. Your little hands. Come, darling, bring
wine . . . we'll laugh . . . laugh." She drank a full glass,
sprang up from Janka's cot on which she had been sprawl-
ing, studied herself at the little mirror . . . "It's my laugh
. . . see?" She crossed her hands behind her back, bent
forward and laughed. . . .
"Makes them mad . . . those sluts down there . . .
but I can do more. Listen, Jan . . . this . . ." Slowly her
face distorted, mouth-corners writhed, a look of greedy
desire came into the big eyes, and Katrine laughed softly
to herself, a purple-hued laugh of happiness, of cruelty.
••Like it? They . . ." with a fling of her hand towards
the bedroom, "they like it. They get red-eyed and hot
t6 THE RED HOUSE
. . . burn up. I don't. I just think: fools! I study that
my mirror. Anyhow, this mirror is my best friend."
nodded at the glass. "Show me a lot of things, don't
old friend? Proud ladies . . . so arrogant . . . or a fi
rich dame, sitting in the window on winter eveni
. . . or a pious nun. Remember, Jan . . . Saint Cecelia?'
With a quick grip of her fingers Katrine fanned a nun'
hood from the dishtowel, rolled her eyes piously upw
and let the blue ribbons of her nightdress run through
hands rosary-wise.
Janka laughed now. "You're a real actress." Katrine'
face darkened. "Only way I amuse myself . . . I'd die
boredom otherwise . . . Sometimes I'm the one, or th
other. There's only one I can't see yet. Dead face . .
cold, still." Head tilted, eyes half closed, she winked
emnly at the mirror. "What will you say then?
Katrine? But the dead are silent . . . and the real Katri
died long ago." Janka brought her coffee and she
greedily, the steam of the hot liquid floating slowly
her lips.
Then she went back to the cot and drew up the cov
lets, shivering. . . .
"Jan, the little blond student was here again. Rem"" . ..LII·"·
ber when he came one afternoon and had coffee 'vith
Funny kid . . . Hm. Jan, now we know why we haven'
any money . . . and you won't shell out any, either,
reproachfully, as she drew an apple from under the pill
and began to eat it. "We just walked up and down .
and I imagined that I might be his mother . . . and .."'. . . ...
him he mustn't go with women like Katrine. That's
a real mother would do." ·
Janka stirred up the fire, murmured, without tu ........·...·Jii'l

her head, .,You've got a child of your own."

.. Oh, hey . . . don't remind me. That's my own bl'-''L1......
don't like it. But supposing I had something little ..
 THE RED HOUSE
blond . . . something that needed help, protection. That
brat of mine don't need anybody. She could almost go out
on the street alone already."
"Jesus Maria! That's a sin . . . a sin."
"What? Why should she be any better than her mother?
No . . . she belongs here . . . belongs on the streets. No
. . . not another word, Jan. That's my affair. Good God,
if it hadn't been for that brat I'd have gone off with the
Berlin Jew last year. Yes, I would. I'm tired of playing this
farce when they come. The dirty swine." She spat out the
apple seeds, stretched on her back and stared at the ceil-
ing. "When you're young and strong, and can feel a bit of
fire yourself sometimes . . . but they eat it out of me, the
beasts. Sometimes I don't even go out. Then they come
here, the . . . chokes me mad when I hear that
knock. Oh, yes . . . he comes and gets what he wants, and
I have to keep still. I'd· like to see his eyes if I gave him a
kick in the . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes I'm happy
myself and I'd like to cry. Oh, Jan . . . then it's good to
have that nice little boy here."
"Where's that child? She hasn't eaten her bread, she
ought to be in by now."
"I won't have her starting rows with that
downstairs," said Katrine angrily.
"You'll never listen to me," sighed Janka, opening the
hall door. "Milada! Miladal" Janka came back into the
kitchen, her tired mouth quivering.
Janka was short, meager, her head drooping over her
sunken breast. Her whole self seemed unfinished, unripe,
as if arrested in development by some sudden shock.
Katrine looked up from her pillow, uneasy. "What you
worrying about that brat for? She'll get through. If she
can't find anything to eat she'll steal it."
Janka's voice quivered in pain. "Oh, such a little, little
 THF RED HOUSE
baby! \Vhat we're doing here . . . it's . . . yes, it's a 1
deadly sin, it's killing her soul. Katrine, it's a sin." '
Katrine looked up, her eyes flamed, her lips parted like :
an angry eat's. Oh, she was expecting something just like r
this ever since that letter came . . . from home . . . ,
from out there. Janka had tried to hide it but she saw it.
They're working behind her back . . . but they can't put !
it over her-not the whole lot of them even.
"Shut up . . . that's my child . . . mine. And if I die
in the gutter, she'll be under me. No, no . . . none of
that between us."
"What's the matter suddenly?"
"Be quiet, Jan. You're a lamb of God. I'm not
reling with you. I'd have gone off with that Jew last year ,
. . . one, two, three . . . if it hadn't been for that brat
For you'd have grabbed her up and gone off with her . ..
put her on papa's lap, wouldn't you no,v?" She sprang up
off the bed and shook her red-brown hair. "And me, her.
mother? No . . . I'll have nothing to do with you folk.
You're slick, but Katrine's more so. My folks were only
poor weavers but they know how to hold onto what's
theirs. We stick." She stamped the floor.
"Katrine, don't talk so wild, so ungodly."
"Don't you be such a hypocrite, woman. I can read in
your eyes just what you'd like to do. No, that kid stays
here and goes on the street, just like me, see? You're no1
worrying about my soul? Wasn't I just such a kid oncei
My soul? Hm. That'll wake up again and laugh . . . on
the Day of Judgment.''
She drew her feet up to the edge of the bed and rested
her head on her knees. Hate and scorn tore at her
"Just wait till he hears that his only child, his own
and blood, walks the street for a few gulden! His chil<
. . . now he wants it . . . now he'd like to drive it home
in his car, nolv that his rich wife can't give him any . .
 THE RED HOUSE
Janka . . . if you rob me of that hour . . . if you give
me away . . . if you deceive me . . ." She sprang up, with
raised arm. Then the arm sank slowly. Katrine nodded
at her reflection in the mirror and spoke softly. "No . . .
sweetheart . . . you wouldn't do that to your Katrine.
Milada . . . Mi . . . Ia . . . da . . ., she called down
from the kitchen window into the courtyard. "She's down
there . . . with the cats. . . ."
Katrine smoothed her hair, singing lightly. Suddenly
she broke off, and turned to Janka, evidently in better
spirits. "Janka, darling, stop fussing at that dirty stove.
Spare your poor hands . . . get the washerwoman in to
clean. We'll have money tonight, I promise you . . . your
Katrine promises to be sensible . . . you just wait. And
besides, why don't you dress up any more? You haven't
been out on the street for two weeks or more, my angel.
That's why you feel so bum." Her slender sensitive fingers
stroked Janka's shoulder.
The little girl pushed through the door. "Come, Milada
... we'll make Auntie look pretty . . . tell her she must
laugh again. . . ...
"If you don't laugh, nobody'll come home with you,"
said Milada gravely. Katrine nudged her friend and
laughed gayly.
"There, you see . . . now try and make a pious milk
maid out of that kidl Oh, dearest, your hair's so rough
... quick, Milada . . . cold cream . . . powder. . . ."
In a gay bustle she pushed Janka down on a chair,
tossed her own wild mass of curls back over her shoulder
and began to work at Janka's face, hair and hands . . .
laughing, joking, playing a part . . . Bohemian endear-
mente; among the Viennese slang. Finally she stepped back
and clapped. "Look, kid, look, isn't Auntie pretty?"
Milada nodded. "Very pretty," as she took up bottles
and jars, putting them back into their places.
20 THE RED HOUSE
"Now the red gown . . ." Janka protested but to no
avail. The others busied themselves about her, then stood
back and applauded. •
"You'll pick up a Count at least, Janka/' said Katrine.
"But you must get out into the light where you can be
seen.''
Milada plucked at Janka's skirt, whispering, "Auntie
. . . if you pick up a lot of money, can't we buy that
canary from Mrs. Lorinser? She'll let us have him cheap
. . . he don't scarcely eat any more. . . ."
Janka walked past the mirror, surprised at herself. Yes
. . . she would scarcely have recognized that figure in the
glass . . . she need not be ashamed of showing herself
on the street.
"Potatoes and butter in the pantry/' she said to Milada.
The little gir.l nodded, and trotted back and forth from
bedroom to kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers,
laden with new objects each trip. She brought fresh under-
wear, redolent of violet, jeweled hair combs, strings of
beads. She pressed her little shoulder against the wardrobe
door, opened it, and felt about among the carelessly hung
silken garments. "The yellow one?" she asked.
"No . . . the white," Katrine commanded.
"Even if it's dirty?''
"It's my best at that.. .."
Katrine threw off her bed jacket and stood there in a
thin chemise, arms and neck gleaming '\vith the yellow
shimmer of old ivory. She shook her short heavy hair over
her face, then rolled it dexterously at the back of her
head, slipped into fresh underwear and a long trailing
skirt of thin white silk. Over all came a long black
wrap, pulled tight around her slender length. This gar·
ment had won for her her name of "Black Katrine..
among male visitors to the alley. Her eyes sparkled, beck·
oned, "Come. . . .,,
 THE RED HOUSE II

Milada looked up at her mother, critically. She did not

like that simple wrap . . . it looked poverty-stricken to
her,. by contrast with the many good silk gowns hanging in
the wardrobe.
"Light the fire," Katrine called back to her. "And eat
your supper," came in Janka's voice, as the two women
went down the steep stairs.
The child stood for a moment, listening. Katrine's high
trilled laughter floated up and the little head nodded
gravely, as in receipt of an expected signal. Immedi-
ately she set to work, feverishly, putting away scattered
garments, clean dishes . . . the soiled ones went into the
kitchen sink. She tore off the soiled bedclothes and made
the beds afresh, her brown hands lingering on the scented
pillows. She moved with incredible dexterity and efficiency
among the furniture, pulling a piece into position here,
flicking off a bit of dust there. like a busy little elf. Red-
cheeked apples were slipped under Katrine's pillow, and
a bottle of wine set out.
Janka did not need all that . • . she was not as fussy
as Mother. . . .
Now the child looked over her work and found it good.
She had not forgotten anything. The lamp was turned low,
its red shade dimmed the room in mystic glow. It was all
so pretty!
Milada slipped a couple of warm potatoes into her
apron pocket and went out. One had to live in The Red
House to know one's way about it by night. Over wooden
galleries, twisting steep stairways, through corridors and
narrow passageways, the worn slippery way led down to
the vault·like entrance. A group of girls stood there, in
gay gowns, loud-voiced, discussing the evening's plans.
Some were for working the cafes, others preferred the
streets.
"Takes a lot o' money to sit around in cafes, and then
22 THE RED HOUSE
maybe you don't make a cent," exclaimed the youngest,
pertly. "Them waiters is so fresh . . . they're just a lot o'
crooks. . . ...
"Well, at least you get a supper . . . which you don't
always, the other way." They laughed.
"Will he let us out already?" asked the youngest of two
others, who sauntered back from the alley entrance.
"Bet .it's that damned crosspatch tonight . . . he keeps
us waitin' just to be nasty. Now in Budapest. . . ."
There was a howl of protest. "Shut up, you Hungarian
swine . . . you ain't got anything to say here. . . ."
"Yes . . . beatin' down on the price like she does. . . ."
The Hungarian with the red cheeks and arrogant
hooked nose laughed mockingly. "So long's I get my
goulash. . . ."
Janka came back. "He'll let us out. . . ."
The girls, pouring from doorways, house comers,
streamed past the policeman at the alley entrance in a
rustling, giggling, trilling rush. The man looked at them
with official disapproval, as they hurried out into the
bright lights of the main streets.
"Auntie/' whispered Milada, trotting beside Janka who
moved slower than the others, burdened by her unaccus-
tomed grandeur, "don't you let anybody put you off with
two gulden as you did last time."
Janka nodded gloomily. "I know," her voice trembled
as she hurried on.
Wrapped in her black robe, tall and slender as a young
pine, with eyes that cut the darkness like flaming swords,
Katrine stood motionless under the star-strewn sky. Unin-
terested, she let the others stream past. Malicious looks
flung towards her, but they concerned her as little as the
occasional careless nudge, or the deliberate insult. She did
not even turn her head. She stood quiet, breathing deeply
of the clear cool night air, expanding lungs clogged with
 THE RED HOUSE
perfume, kitchen fumes and bed-lvarmth. Then, easily,
casually, hips lightly rising and falling, she sauntered past
the houses. The other girls went out into the main streets.
She remained in the alley. Her customers sought her out,
anywhere.
Once in a while, Katrine did go out into the city. If
•
money was scarce at home, if Janka demanded some neces-
sary purchase, then Katrine dressed herself carefully in
silks, like a fine lady, and strolled the broad streets by
daylight. When again she lingered at the entrance of her
alley, a smile of invitation was all she needed. And she had
her choice of the recipient.
After dark, the men came of themselves. There were
some with whom she walked quickly homeward, business-
like, as if carrying a package, with no slightest look or
gesture of invitation. She opened the house door, whistled
softly. Milada slipped out of a corner with a candle, and
lighted the stairs up which her mother walked, stimy,
ahead of the visitor.
But there were other times when Katrine walked up
and down with her customer, laughing, chatting, then
turned homeward with a soft languor, her low deep throat-
laugh alluring, inviting. A low song on her lips mingled
oddly with the creaking of the door hinges. Something of
her tenseness communicated itself to the little child who
trudged behind her.
"She likes him," she thought happily, a hint of song
on her lips. Then, her candle duties performed, she ran
out into the street to find Janka and tell her not to come
home for a while. Mother 'vouldn't want it. Milada was
proud of her much-desired mother. Conscientiously, she
would count the visitors off on her fingers, and was de-
lighted when both little brown hands were not enough.
This woman radiated vital force, untamed, insouciant,
seeking and taking . . . an alluring charm felt even by
24 THE RED HOUSE
the shackled child-soul. Katrine was of those lvho rule,
lvherever they are; whose imperial moods others endure,
forgetting the discomfort of the insulting black hours for
the sunshine of her happier moments.
The woman of the street could awaken in her lovers the
sense of an indiviqual personality, a real human being
even in the indignity of paid embraces. They did not
forget her . . . sometimes a word, a soft laugh in black
night, and the fine lines of her body stood clear in the
man's memory.
She would keep some one of them for days, perhaps,
caring for him, moving busily about her little home, hum-
ming happily, a submissive loving bride. She would then
lock her door to all others despite Janka's scoldings. If
money was short, she had good clothes and jewels to sell
. . . but not herself, at such moments.
Sometimes it would be a young student, or a painter,
wandering into the alley in search of models and caught
by Katrine's superb body. Or again it might be an old
actor, out of work, or a loafer. . . . She would talk to
these men, question them about their lives, pour out over
them the glow of her eyes, the sweetness of her kisses.
One or the other would return and offer her a settled
home, even marriage. But she always refused; firmly, with
bitter decision. Only in the consciousness of deepest degra-
dation could she find the strength, and the will, to un. .
chain the true inner sweetness of her abused, desecrated
soul.
"You see, Jan . . . what I will . . . happens . . ."
Often in the happier past had Janka heard these words on
her friend's fresh young lips. And now and again she still
heard them from the painted lips, words that glowed fleet-
ingly beneath the rouge, like lost bits of royal purple. And
Janka still nodded, acquiescent.
When Katrine slept, or went out to the shops, Janka
 THE RED HOUSE 25
and the little girl sat close to one another on a bench near
the stove and talked of her . . . How pretty she looked
in her new gown . . . what they had planned to cook for
her dinner . . . about the big roll of bills they had found
that morning in the table drawer. The fine gentleman in
a top hat had left it, with his address. This Milada had
found on the Boor, a crumpled, cast-off slip of paper. She
smoothed it carefully, and laid it away in safety.
"She might need it some day," the child murmured,
precociously.
"I wish she wouldn't spend so much time on that tall
chap . . . that politician. The girls say he never pays
anything:' Janka looked worried. "I think he wants to
take her away from here. . . ."
"No . . . no . . ." The child's voice trembled in ex-
citement. "Mother'll never go away from here . . .
,
never. . . .
"Wouldn't you like to go away from here?" Janka
spoke slowly, as if feeling her way.
Milada's answer came quick, definite. "Me? Nol I want
to stay here all my life . . . same as Mother."
"Oh, child, dear one . . . the world is so wide . . . so
bright . . . there are places where you wouldn't see a
house . . . just open sky, fields . . . meadolvs . . . flow-
ers and . . . in the distance . . . the forest . . . Oh,
dear Lord . . .'., A sob choked off her voice.
"But we have flowers here, Auntie, and little Dickey
. . . I think he'll sing soon . . . he.,s happy nolv . . . did
you hear him call me?" Milada clapped her hands, then
stopped, abashed, with a timid glance tolvards the closed
bedroom door.
Rassel, city official, was a passing episode of those days.
He was a tall, thin, queer sort of chap, '\\1ho came fre-
quently to the alley, but never showed the color of his
money, bringing only presents of fruit which he got free
 THE RED HOUSE
from the city markets. Katrine took a fancy to him,
thought him unhappy, inhibited. He understood the art
of keeping her waiting until her passion flared out to the
exclusion of all else . . . that was Katrine.
Finally one evening he came . . . of his own volition.
Katrine waited, sprawled on her great bed. She heard his
slow heavy steps on the stairs . . . tiny tripping ones
beside them . . Milada with the candle. The door
0

opened, he grinned, lifted the child's chin. "Here, baby

bandit, take this. . . .''
Late that night Janka, eyes angry and heavy with sleep,
downstairs looking for the child. She found her
asleep in a corner, blue with cold. "Come," she said.
Milada started up, stammering, "No . . . no . . .
Mother wouldn't like it . . . Mother is . . ." Janka
sighed deeply, caught up the thin little body, pressed it
to herself in hysterical tenderness. . . .
"God forgive us the sin we do to you . . . poor little
sou1. . . ."
§3
JusT an episode, but it lasted a bit longer than most.
Katrine grew domestic, helped in the kitchen, danced and
sang about the little flat. "Jan, I want something to do,
something useful .. foolish to loaf around all day. You
o

know . . . I'd like to be a teacher . . . or sit by the

window, with embroidery, silk and gold beads on silk . . .
Don't you remember what fine things I made in the con-
vent, Jan? It was nice there, \Vasn't it? . . . \veil
o • •

some fine day I may give up this business, and devote

myself to pious works . o Her laugh rang merry, as she
."

flexed her lithe body.

"Such talk is sinful," murmured Janka, cleaning salad
leaves.
"Oh . . . it's great to have a man who understands
 THE RED HOUSE
one . . ." Katrine chatted on, absorbed in her own
thoughts. "I wouldn't take a cent from him, Janka. . . ."
Janka did not answer. Her sallow face was even more
than usually drawn and anxious. Her lips moved lightly,
as if in prayer. Katrine became aware, and gazed at her,
worried. What was the matter now? There was plenty of
money in the house. She couldn't stand this grouching
... it spoiled her best mood.
"Want an apple, Jan? He says eating drives out sad
thoughts. Cook something mighty nice today, won't you,
dear one? Oh, Jan . . . I want to be happy all day . . .
all day . . . for I know he's coming again . . . Well . . .
what is the trouble? Say something . . ." Katrine's lids
drooped over her eyes, her upper lip rose, showing shin-
ing teeth, firm pink gums. Folds creased her smooth brow.
"You angry? Well? Woman, will you speak when I tell
you to?" An odd unease quivered through the question.
"Must you always spoil the few happy hours I have, dear?"
"I'm only human. I can't look on at this any longer,"
Janka muttered.
"At . . . what?'' Katrine straightened up, her broad
sweet upper lip pressed to her teeth. Her jaws tightened,
the cheek-bones standing out.
"You, her mother, her own mother . . . ifs on your
conscience . . . before God. When he calls her a 'spawn
of sin/ a 'baby bandif . . . that little child! And you
stand there and laugh at itl And you let her stand down
there, watching for men, and she has to say, 'Mother's got
one up there . . . ' That . . . that's . . ." Janka raised
the big spoon in her hand. "That's . . . that's a sin . . .
it's ..." The spoon clattered to the floor. Janka's hands
veiled her face. "It's worse than murder."
In the pause, Janka felt her heart beat up to her throat.
Then Katrine spoke, slow, dully, her glance wavering like
 THE RED HOUSE
a weary bird. "Yes . . . it would be better . . . if she v.as
dead. . . ."
"Send her away . . . send her away . . ." Janka's soft
plea was a sob.
"No . . . no . . . they shall not take my child from
me. Don't you people know Katrine yet? What's up?
Another letter? No . . . she'll die in the gutter before I
let them get a finger on herl What are you up to behind
my back? Playing false . . . sneaks that they arel"
Janka looked calmly into the flaming angry eyes. "I do
not play false to you. rm through with life . . . I'm only
your . . . if I wanted to go home there'd be a place for
me. . . ."
"Sorry you don't?" sneered Katrine wildly. "Your fine
home with your prince of an uncle . . . golden heart,
eh? Yes . . . you'd be a nice stable maid for your rich
lady cousin, wouldn't you?"
Janka threw one straight look at her, then turned to
the fire, her face stony under the flickering glow.
"You need not worry about me, Katrine . . . it's not
a question of what happens to me," she replied, in gentle
reproach. "But that little child . . . your child . . . her
soul is lost, for earth and heaven, if she stays here. It may
be too late already, Katrine, and we've looked on and
never raised a finger. It's just as if you looked on at that
bird there, when he's dying, and wouldn't give him a
crumb or a drop of water . . . and laughed when he beat
his wings . . . and struggled. God's creature . . . No
. . . scream if you like . . . it's true . . . it's a sin . . .
and we'll all pay for it. Put her into a convent, Katrine
. . . her to a convent school, where she'll learn hon·
est work and prayers, and maybe she'll want to stay there.
God in Heaven is my witness, I'm not playing false to
you . . . at home. They don't know a thing about us ...
but . • . it's my poor soul won't let me rest. I went to
 THE RED HOUSE 29
confession . . ." She dropped to her knees on the floor,
sobbing, with bowed head.
Katrine's heart was hardened to all suffering . . . ex-
cept Janka's . . . she choked down the vulgar word that
rose to her lips. . . .
They had grown up together in the convent school,
Janka, the daughter of rich peasants and she a poor
weaver's child. Burning lids veiled the betraying fire of
her eyes . . . her garroted soul quivered to the chords of
these memories . . . She sank down beside Janka; hot
tears rained on the hands she tried to catch in her own.
"Janka . . . sweetheart . . . be good . . . laugh, dear-
est . . . No . . . no you must look at me . . . your
Katrine loves you . . . and nothing else in all the world.
There's nothing in all the world worth one look from you.
Yes . . . yes . . . we'll do whatever you want. Yes .••
she'll go to the convent school . . . to the good Sisters
. . . maybe she will stay there and pray for our souls . • .
no . . . only for mine. You're pure and good as one of
God•s own angels."
She held Janka's head to her breast, crooning loving
words. All the old magic, the power of this proud soul
broke through again, soothing, calming Janka's pain.
Katrine even promised to let her lover of the moment go
again, if Janka wished.
"Now listen, sweetheart," she whispered . . . "We'll
lock the door tonight and we won•t let a man in, not one.
And we'll creep into bed together, the way we used to do
in the convent. . . . Remember the time you thought you
saw a ghost and it was only old Wettel?,. She nudged
Janka, laughing, the glow of her gray eyes full and warm
on the other's face until Janka, too, began to laugh and
chatter. When Milada ran in to see if dinner was ready,
the half-cooked dishes were cooling over the dying fire.
Then they all three laughed, and Milada ran down after
so THE RED HOUSE
sausage, pickles, chocolate, wine, apples, many apples.
When they'd eaten, Janka pulled a blue ribbon £rom her
table drawer and, for the first time, began to gather the
child's rough hair into braids.
"Fixin' me up pretty, Auntie?" queried Milada inter..
ested.
"We're going to the convent school where all the good
little children sit around with their hair in braids, and
learn to read and to pray."
"I don't want to go with the good children!"
"Tut . . . tut . . . you'll like it. There's pretty pic.
tures there and books, and nice things to sew. . . ."
"But I can't take Dickey?.,
"No, there's no place for a canary in school." Janka
looked down proudly on the two stiff heavy braids and
bound them together with the ribbon above the thin
childish neck. "Wouldn't you like to be a pious Sister? If
you're good and learn to pray, they might let you stay
in the convent."
Milada shook her head energetically. "Don't want to
. . . I want to stay here in The Red House."
Katrine's eyes laughed at them. "Well . . . go ahead
with your pilgrimage . . ." She yawned, and stretched
lazily on the bed. "I want to sleep."

§4
IN the convent waiting-room a lay Sister listened patiently
to Janka's story, then shook her head doubtfully as she
gazed down at the thin shabby child. Milada, quite calm,
let her great eyes skim the room, and occasionally rubbed
her nose, her only sign of emotion. The Sister said she
would have to speak to the Mother Superior, but there
were conferences all the afternoon, and anyway . . . there
wasn't much hope that they could take pupils from ..
 THE RED HOUSE
such surroundings . . . Oh, well . . . they might \\'ait
and she'd see what could be done. But the school was well
filled already, with children of honest parenD. . . . She
went off and left them.
Janka whispered anxiously, smoothing Milada's gown
and hair. "Isn't it lovely here? . . . just as solemn as in
church. . .. And look there." She pointed out into
the garden where blue-aproned children were playing.
"You must pray now . . . then they'll let you play with
th em. . . .
JJ

"Don't want to . . . want to go home with you." There

was no defiance but great firmness in Milada's tone.
The lay Sister returned with a plump elderly nun,
whose kind weary face smiled pityingly. The heavy bunch
of keys at her belt clinked in the quiet.
Janka pushed Milada forward and was about to speak
again. But the Sister cut her off, saying that she knew all
about it. . . . No . . . unfortunately the poor little thing
couldn't stay in the convent . . . that wouldn't be right
for the other children, and besides she was too young yet
... only six. "You poor little mite," she finished softly,
laying her hand on Milada's head.
The lay Sister made a suggestion, the nun nodded. "Yes
... yes, of course, just the thing." She turned to the
anxious Janka. "Take her to this address." Janka 'vrote as
she dictated. "It's a public school for neglected children
... under church supervision of course . .. three years'
course. And each year a girl is chosen from the upper class
for some convent. You see, if she's good and studies, she
may have the chance to get in here eventually, or into
some other convent school . . . No . . ." in answ·er to
Janka's low query, "you need no recommendation. Just
tell Madame Celestine \Ve sent you."
"Kiss her hand," lvhispered Janka to Milada. But the
child refused, turned to the door, pulling Janka's skirt.
 THE RED H OUSE
"Afraid of the black woman?" asked the nun with a
kindly smile and wave of her hand.

§5
THE school was a long, low, whitewashed building, ita
narrow door brightened by a white cross.
Milada was accepted as pupil, but Janka had to implore,
to scold, to hide herself in another room before the stub..
born child, unaccustomed to any obedience, could be per-
suaded to stay in these strange surroundings.
Fortunately "Aunt Celestine" had insight deepened by
experience. She led the sobbing little creature into a big
room piled high with books, globes, and. stuffed animals.
Live animals too .. . a monkey on a crossbar, tiny turtles
crawling over a bed of moss, white mice with ruby eyes,
that scampered under a bookcase and peeped out at them
curiously.
Aunt Celestine turned the globes, showed the moving
planets, called the monkey down from his bar, held a little
white mouse in her upturned hand, then opened a b
with colored pictures. "See here . . . when you can read
this book, you'll learn about all these wonderful o.& . . .• . .......lll

. . . you'll know what's going on up there in the sky,

on the earth, and about all the animals. But you m
stay here and obey me. Will you?"
The child looked about . .. enthralled. Perhaps
the first time in her little life her great gray eyes op-...........,.
wide, shot thirsting gleams around the fascinating
Over the thin little brown face came a strange new
sian, making it young, childlike. She pressed the book
her breast and nodded in hungry expectation. "Can
begin right off?" she asked. The woman nodded,
at the result.
"Now first tell me your name and where you live."
 TilE RED HOUSE 88
"Milada Rezek . . . I live in The Red House."
••no you think you can love me a little?"
Milada shook her head gravely. "Oh, no .•. I
don't love anybody but Mother and Auntie and little
. k ey. . . ."
D1c
"Time enough:' smiled Aunt Celestine, wisely.

Thus a new life began for Milada.

No longer did she roam the street alone or run from
door to door in The Red House, doing errands for the
girls, carrying letters, watching with practised eyes the
men who strolled into the alley. Her little soul was awake
now, caught up in a hunger for knowledge. She wanted
to hurry over the difficulties, jump the hurdles that barred
her from the mysteries of the alphabet, from the world of
printed thoughts.
She studied stray sheets of newspaper found in the alley;
she pored over cheap novels lent by the girls; over faded
calendars, picking out the letters one by one, calling Janka
to help. And she learned . . . quickly, easily, pushed on
by her stubborn will, her tenacious purpose. While her
little schoolmates were still in the first stages, Milada
cowered in corners over a big book she had begged from
Mrs. Lorinser, following the words with a brown finger
while her gray eyes bored themselves into the tangle of
black letters. "Auntie, what's a re . . . retribution?,.
..Auntie . . . what's sin-ful-love?" Janka helped as
best she could, and even Katrine began to notice and
laughed when she found the child with her nose in a book.
Learning to read was the first real experience in Mil-
ada's life, and even many years later she would say, "That
happened before I learned to read . . ." The business of
the life all around her, at home, began to lose interest
for the child. She lived in a new world.
Fatigued by unaccustomed mental effort she demanded
34 THE RED HOUSE
rest at night. And as Madame Celestine asked that the
child should be placed somewhere "out of danger,. at
night, Janka found a place for her in an unused attic room,
peopled only by rats. Rats of a queer sort they were, big
black and white spotted fellows who came out fearlessly
and sniffed at the intruder. Milada played with them,
warmed them in her bed at night, brought bread crumbs,
showed them her books. She called them her pupils, made
herself a severe 'teacher,' told them of Lord Jesus and his
disciples. The story of the Saviour took on new life ,here
in this bare cell where a tiny girl preached to tame rats
who looked on devoutly and rubbed their heads together
in amazement.
Janka surprised her once . . . and crossed herself as
if she had seen a vision. Katrine listened to the tale indif.
ferently. But a new torturing jealousy shook her at Janka's
eager interest. "All this fuss about the brat! She's just such
another as you w·ere . . . that's why you like her ...
her nose in a book and pious, too. . . .''
Katrine's happier mood had quickly faded. The
with Rassel had not lasted more than a week. She
back to her trade, more apathetic than before.
Cold, reserved, unsensual as are all dominating .............
ters, Katrine was quite unsuited to her present life.
poor pleasures her comrades bought for themsel
jewelry, real or false, gay clothes, the amusement of
moment, meant nothing to her. She was proud of
body's beauty, but weary of adorning it for others; and
wings of imagination, lifting her proud and stubborn
above the sordid everyday, now began to droop.
Slowly, slowly, the hopeless misery of years to
began to haunt her, years that drew nearer stealthily,
hungry wolves. At first she refused to see, to hear . .
but now there was no denying the vision. . . .
"Two years more, maybe, you'll be here, you'll go
 THE RED HOUSE 85
on the man-hunt, you'll laugh, and love .•• as they
demand.
"Five years more . . . and they will not follow so
eagerly. They'll come up, peer into your face, whistle, and
turn away. . .. You'll follow then, a11d plead . . . you,
Katrine . . . just as the others do.
"And in ten years more? Old . . . stiff-limbed,
wrinkled, dyed hair . . . a room in some outlying dis-
trict. You'll sit on men's laps, drink with them, when they
are drunk enough to be friendly, and you'll offer your-
self from barroom to barroom for an evening's meal. . . .''
The visions came, she plunged into them, tortured;
secretly and anxiously she studied face and body for a sign
of wrinkles, of withering . . . her hands passed over her
firm young flesh, seeking the coming decay.
Then came the thought of death . . . again and again.
She was not afraid of death . . . what frightened her
was the thought of the slow dragging years that tore at her
body \Vith pitiless iron claws. Those years would have to
be lived through, before death came.
When would death come? She still felt so much life
within herself, she could laugh, and sing, adorn herself, be
glad with the rejoicing. And all that must pass . . .
slowly . . . the pleasure of good wine, the joy her mirror
gave her, the happy feel of silken garments, delight in
men's madness, and . . . deepest of all, cherished bliss of
her revenge. Not until then, could she die.
She tried to shake off the pictures, sought new friends:
then, with another sudden whirl, played through the usual
farce of repentance, desire for purification. This last
amused her for quite awhile, especially when the men took
it seriously. One ardent young student brought her good
books and the literature of a Berlin Magdalen Home. She
wrote to this house. Then came a mood of brutal despair
in which she strewed the floor with tattered remnants of
 THE RED HOUSE
all the books and deliberately sought out dives avoided
by the more decent kind of registered girls.
From these places she brought money home and offers
of a stage chance . . . such as it was. Just once she did
appear, at a private night-club of shady repute. But, on
the stage, just about to sing, an odd muscular cramp seized
her. It made an unpleasant sensation that might have
had bad consequences for Katrine had not one of the
members possessed sufficient influence to silence the press
and official investigation.
Back to her old life again, tom by unrest that drove her
into wilder and wilder excesses. Beneath it all lay the
hidden cause. Katrine had lost her belief in the possibility.
in the deadliness of her revenge.
There . . . so far away, amid his fertile fields, his rich
possessions, he sat . . . safe, assured; the blackness of her
fall could not dim the brightness of the free air he
breathed. Cold, calculated, sure of victory she had nursed
her plan. . . . Down . . . down . . . go down into the
depths and drag them with you, strike him to the heart,
the proud peasant amid his broad acres . . . down into
the filth with his niece, his mistress of an hour, his own
child, his flesh and blood . . . down into disgrace and
shame. It would be a fatal blow to his pride, his happiness.
Well could she vision the iron rage that gleamed in hia
blue eyes. But only alone, by night, would he stretch out
his arms for Janka, his niece, and for his own child. By
day, he smiled in sated content, and backs were bent
humbly when he passed. One triumph she had had in all
these years of sacrifice . . . when he sent his message and
demanded his child . . . He offered money . . . much
money for Katrine, and a little house amid the fields
Janka, with garden and meadow; the fat priest, his
senger, smacked thick lips in the recital.
"'No . . . the child is minei" The man's demandsl
•

.
 THE RED HOUSE 37
Janka's unspoken plea, could not move her. She watched,
spied, opened letters. Did his red blood beat for this little
child? Then she knew what she would do . . . she threw
this little soul into the maw of her revenge.
. . . Wait . . . you proud rich man . . . wait until
they bring your niece, frail blond Janka, home to the vil-
lage poorhouse! Wait until you see your child hounded
into the gutter . . . ragged . . . unrecognizable; the pic-
tures came again and again, burning into her eyes, keep-
ing her warm with sacrificial fires.
But, little by little, the power to will, to make of theae
dreams a reality, flickered out in the morass of her exist·
ence. The struggle for life, with its false laughter, its shal-
low delights followed by dull reaction, pitilessly devoured
even Katrine's rich nature. Hate, revenge, seemed so un-
important. The past sank away into an unreal haze, leav·
ing only the broken frame of a whirl of gcty motes that
tricked her blinded soul.

§6
WHEN Milada was eleven, and in the upper form of her
school, a change came over the spirit of things in the
nameless alley, a change that threatened The Red House
and its lodgers. Great events came in the train of what had
seemed unimportant details.
The alley was cleaned, paved with good sidewalks in
front of the houses, and a city lamp-post set up, with a
strong light that mocked the flickering Red House flame .
•'\.nd . . . at lastl A shining black board with white letters
bore witness to a christening . . . the nameless alley was
now "Red House Lane."
So far, so good. The improvements were appreciated
and Mrs. Lorinser put out her smoking oil lamp, for the
 J
THE RED HOUSE
new street light was just or,posite her basement shop . . .
a tribute to her importa:tce in the alley.
Then came the unpleasant consequences. Workmen
tore up courtyards and cellars to put in new drains;
officials poked into odd comers, and gave orders that
plumbing must be kept in repair, that n<'. dirty water was
to be thrown into the street. Every day, the ash-cart rattled
around the comer, and unkempt slatterns first grouched,
then laughed, then finally grew accustomed to bringing
out cans and boxes to be emptied. Lorinser, keener than
the others, grumbled, then protested openly.
She did not like these strange faces, these prying eyes,
in Red House Lane. She sensed a power greater than her
own, a power not amenable to private agreements.
Her objections availed her little. Her "own" policeman
shrugged complacent shoulders . . . "city orders. . . ."
Then came the worst blow. House owners, tenants,
lodgers, were ordered to the police station, and their
papers demanded; citizenship certificates, dealer's licenses,
police books, physician's attestation. As a result almost
every landlady had to pay a fine . . . "No right to give
meals" . . . "you didn't register your lodgers" . . .
"you've paid taxes on about half, not more" . . . "we'll
teach you to ,pile five or six in a room scarcely big enough
f or one. . . .
Turmoil, screamed protests, silenced by a reading of
paragraphs from the civil code. The girls stood dumb,
passive . . . "Go back home, get your papers . . . twenty·
four hours to get out . . ." Most of them in debt to their
landlady . . . that meant leaving their few meager be-
longings in her hands. The girls lost out, whichever \vay.
Some did protest, and had to be subdued by strong
hands. The police were not brutal; they did their duty
with official calm.
Excitement surrounded The Red House, where a patro1
 THE RED HOUSE 39
supervised the emptying of the basement shop. "No official
permission to keep a shop., Two thin gray Jews purchased
the stock; Lorinser stood by watching them take it away
piece by piece, all the goods her greedy hands had col-
lected through the years. But the Commissioner had been
so angry, at the police station; she hadn't dared a further
word.
In The Red House, too, there were evictions. But not
as many as else\vhere, for Lorinser had been careful in
taking only girls with adequate papers. Still, Hungarian
Rosa and three others were not sufficiently documented
and were ordered off.
Katrine and Janka had all the necessary documents and
were not molested. Particularly as Katrine could show a
weekly doctor's certificate, a precaution that was not ex-
pected in this miserable alley. The Inspector patted her
rounded shoulder benevolently. "That's a good girl."
Peace settled down once more on the ne\vly-named
alley.
Empty nests were soon filled with fresh young goods
... laughing girls equipped with unexceptionable certifi-
cates, and landladies received them gladly, for now they
paid a tax permitting them to "let rooms to lodgers., The
picture of life in the alley seemed the same as before . . .
but for a forty per cent rise in the price of rooms and
board. "That's because of these confounded taxes we got
to pay," explained the landladies. "But there's no unfair
competition here now, no rich ladies sneaking in to amuse
themselves. This alley is only for decent registered girls."
In spite of all this, the last and greatest surprise came
like a bursting bomb. The Red House was sold, and the
new owner, a Mrs. Goldscheider, planned to make of it
an up-to-date bordel with all modern improvements.
The entire alley seethed; all were interested. My word
... a licensed brothel in Red House Lane? The others
 THE RED HOUSE
might as well pack their bags . . . lone-banders can't
stand out against that sort of thing. Well . . . some might
be lucky and get in there. Mrs. Lorinser had startling tales
to tell. The new owner had sent for her, and laid out her
plans, but she wasn't allowed to talk about them yet. One
thing she could do . . . give notice to leave . . . "A sale
breaks a lease. Out you go inside a week. That's that."
Move again . . . out on the trail . . . and earnings
were so good here! It cost a lot to live in The Red House,
especially the extra tips to the janitress, but it was worth
it. Where now? The city was overfull. Take all these good
clothes into some wretched district . . . stand about on
two-gulden corners? Go out to hunger and misery? . . .
Laughter was stilled in The Red House, young voices
dulled as the girls slunk about sadly, complaining even to
their nightly customers. A frown darkened Katrine's white
forehead. Move on again . . . now, when she was half
through with life? . . . ..Where'll we go? I don't want to
begin all over again. I can't get used to strange walls . . .
smile and be nice to a lot of strangers . . ." Janka sat
before the fire, cutting kindlings. It was her pet pastime.
She cut them small and fine, and Milada, on the floor
before her, piled them up in neat heaps. A soft glow from
the open stove door rested with friendly gleam on their
faces.
"Yes . . . where'll we go?" sighed Janka. "Everybody
wants to stay here . . . even if it costs fifteen gulden a
day over there at Zimmerman's. Dear Lord . . . a girl
alone can't keep up at those prices."
..What's the use?" muttered Katrine with grim indiffer-
ence. "No matter where we go, we take all the misery with
us. What's the use . . . let them pile us in six in a room,
the way Mother Fritschen does . . . I don't care."
"Auntie, why can't we go to the pretty white house with
the weathercock, and the big garden where all the pinla
 THE RED HOUSE 41
and rosemary grow? Wouldn't that be the best place for
us now?" Milada's young voice cut into a stillness which
deepened tensely after her words.
Katrine's full upper lip rose until her pink gums
gleamed. "Hm . . . she'd like to be there," she mur-
mured as if to herself. But Janka's eyes, guilt laden,
would not meet hers.
Why don't I break loose now? . . . thought Katrine
. . . Yes . . . why didn't she spring up, smash things?
. . . The other two were afraid of her . . . Janka con-
scious of guilt, the child cowering like a homeless bird in a
storm . . . Why should they be afraid? Couldn't they see
that Katrine won't raise a finger now? That Katrine her-
self is broken . . . frightened . . . she knows not why
. . . Or does she know that she fears her own thoughts
roving with theirs? . . . She turned to the wall, ignoring
them, sinking into one of the dull, aimless fits of dream-
ing that came more often now . . . Yes, Janka is right
. .. we'll go home . . . it was nice there . . . home .••
The big white house on its hilltop rose before her, the
great gates that stood open, defiantly, day and night . . .
Ah ... she knew it well . . . that house.
She had loved it with a wild, mad, inexplicable pas-
.
SlOD• • • •
She could roam about there for hours, with Janka, ad-
miring, examining, calculating . . . a game that intoxi-
cated like new wine. . . .
To be mistress therel There amid smiling abun-
dancel . . .
Her pride rose up, and snatched blindly . . . was she
not the fairest? . . . the best? Fitted for such a place?
Then the squire, the rich peasant-proprietor . . . the
"prince" they called him . . . had won her. For an idle
summer evening, careless, laughing, yet dominating • • •
 i
42 THE RED HOUSE
his hands full of caresses for her who had never yet felt
a man's lips on hers. . . . .
uThey don't kiss in the convent." . . . "Then I will
teach you, lass. . . :'
The late-summer days were warm, the hours slipped by
in longing dreams; eyes, hands, lips, sought, evaded, met
in the long cool corridors of the great house. . . .
She had not loved him, the peasant-prince . . . a fat
arrogant chap, not one to love . . . But she was proud of
him, for he was lord of this great estate, the most impor-
tant man in his county. . . .
And when the child moved beneath her heart, she
caressed her body as in blessing, mad with joy. Now he
must marry her . . . She couldn't go back to the convent
now . . . his heir must be true-born.
Janka was by now selving on her bridesmaid dress. . . .
Red corals were the bridal jewel of the Matschaker brides.
Katrine laid it around her neck; red as blood it shone on
her white neck. Then suddenly it broke . . . drops of
blood torrented down . . . Then something dreadful had
happened . . . She could hardly recall what it was . . .
Black visions . . . in the leaden afternoon silence.

"You durned sluts, you." The Lorinser woman flung

the door open.
Katrine sat up in bed, dazed, eyes half closed. The:
coarse voice tore the uvilight of her thoughts. .·
"Get yer dirty pail out o' the hall and take in
rags from the court. You ain't got any extra privileges
now . . . you baggage." The door slammed viciousli
behind her. In the hall, she raised her voice again: "I'd
give a fiver for every day sooner you pack and get oute1
here!"
Janka snatched up a basket and ran out, Milada leanec
 THE RED HOUSE
from the window. "Look at her tearin' down our-
wash . . . ."
"What . . . what's the matter?" asked Katrine, out of a
haze. Milada explained hurriedly, " 'Cause we hung the
wash in the court . . . all of a sudden she don't want it
. . . fussin' about the pail too . . . I'll go help Auntie."
Leaving the window open, she ran out into the hall. A
chill breath of rain-laden air struck Katrine and brought
her to herself again. "Shut up . . . you all," she cried,
springing out of bed. ,
Hands pressed to temples, she looked around. Cracking
plaster walls, dirty brown ceiling, fly-specked, cobwebbed
... and just now she had seen trees, shining meadows
. . . a house, silver-blue in moonlight . . . And here,
shabby broken furniture . . . odors of soap . . . coffee.
Looked like a cheap dive . . . afternoon, and no one had
cleaned up yet. The vision rose, dream-faint . . . sun-
bright white shining floors, oaken furniture, pewter that
mirrored one's face, that gave back the sun in stronger
glow . . . creamy embroidered linen at the windows . . .
so firm it all seemed, so clean, so wholesome, so enduring.
Then all gone, wiped away . . . and this . . . this re-
mained. She seemed to see it for the first time, burning into
her brain. Dirt . . . shabbiness . . . discomfort . . . A
loud quarrel in the hall cut through her thoughts. The
door opened slowly, Janka came in, dragging a basket.
Milada followed with a pail and a bundle of rope. Kat-
rine's eyes bored into the picture. . . .
"I got the rope down," announced Milada, triumphant.
"Hang it up here . . . look at these spots on my clean
wash." Busily they worked, disregarding Katrine. Milada
fastened the rope back and forth across the room, Janka
hung the wash, larger pieces reaching so near the floor that
little Milada had to crouch to pass them. Katrine, ignored,
sat on the edge of the bed, hi ting her fingernails.
44 THE RED HOUSE
Suddenly, she broke loose. Milada stared with wide eyes,
Janka's outstretched arms were powerless to ward off
destruction.
Panting, cursing, Katrine tugged at the rope, tearing it
down, dragging the clean clothes on the floor, stamping on
them . . . ''You'd smother me in dirt and mess . . .
noon, and nothing cleaned up . . . Shut upl I want peace
and quiet . . . quiet . . . I tell you . . ." Foaming
words, inarticulate in rage . . . she banged on the kitchen
cupboard with both fists. Its frail balance lost, the cup-
board tilted forward, spilling its contents noisily. Kattine,
silent now, stared down at the pots and pans.
Then she went back to the bedroom, her rage vanished,
her angry thoug·hts flown . . . Her soul was quiet now
. . . she smiled at it . . . why worry about dirt . . .
after all, it can keep one warm. A pair of flannel drawers
on the floor lay spraddled like a lazy, sated man. . . .
Katrine laughed aloud.
"I can't do it all alone," 1anka, half sobbing, began.
"Let it lie, Janka . . . call the laundress . . . you go
get me wine . . . Anyway, I want a little peace and
quiet." She went into the bedroom.
Why worry? Good thing maybe that the place was sold
and she with it. Katrine flung herself into an armchair,
bored her bare feet into the long hair of a fur rug . . .
Life in a brothel couldn't be so bad . . . no responsibility)
. . . why not? A wine bottle was shoved in through a doot,
opened crackwise. She snatched it up . . . Yes . . .
move? 1anka . . . well, 1anka could go home if she wished
to . . . and . . . here she shook herself, then tossed
curls . . . yes ... take the child too. He could
them both . . . what did she care? . . . Did she still hate
him?
She groaned in agony . . . as she had groaned
she left the manor, hopeless, that dull gray morning.
 THE RED HOUSE
Groaned at the vision of herself as mistress of that proud
house. . . . Well could she have filled the place . . . a
proud dutiful wife . . . a careful house-mistress, hostess
. . . and . . . her childI Had it been born honestly, in
the great white house, under laughing sunshine . . . how
she would have loved it. Nothing too good for it. . . .
She was not mourning for the child . . . only for her
broken mother-pride. What did that stupid beggar-girt
mean to her? A bastard . . . belonged in the gutter . . .
needed no lovel Let her learn to drink . . . the earlier the
better.
Katrine poured wine into a glass redolent of violets,
and gulped it do"vn . . . Drink . . . that was the one
sure comfort . . . Sacrificed? Had she not been sacrificed?
She could see him still, thickset, arrogant, hands on hips
. . . She could hear his laughter;
"What's that? Like to be mistress here, eh, Katinka?-
Don't be so ambitious. Want to get married? How about
the head stableman? He's had his eye on you . . ." She
had leaped forward, caught at his breast, shaken him, in
her young strength and burning rage. But he was stronger.
He only laughed. "Catl" he said, standing unmoved. Then
her arms fell and she went on into the house.
But in the gray of next morning she crept into Janka's.
room and told her all. The gentle girl knelt beside her,
stroking her hands. Katrine sobbed, implored. ..Janka,
dear one, come with me. If I go alone, I'll drown myself
... Don't forsake me and my baby. Darling, if you come
with us, he'll fetch us all back, for your sake., Passion-
ately she kissed the clasped fingers of the weeping blond
girl.
They stole from the house before break of day, from the
house, from the village. Weary, helpless, almost without
funds, they landed that evening in the great city.
Katrine's first move was to write the man telling him
 THE RED HOUSE
•
she and Janka would return at once if he would promise
to marry her, as was his duty. She did not ask for charity,
only for her right.
"Our summer-love is not dead, Andreas. It beats softly
under my heart, carrying my thoughts to you . . . lover
. . . husband . . . Do not bring misery where there
might be such happiness.,
The answer came soon . . . angry, addressed to Janka,
not to her. He would take no dictation from any such
lvoman. Janka was to return at once . . . alone. He'd
teach her to run off with the first best vagabond! He was a
good sort, he'd recognize the child as his, and look after it
later. That was all.
The two girls sat close together on a park bench in a
rain-drizzle. Janka's blond head with its fiat childish fea.
tures almost hidden in Katrine's shoulder. Katrine sat up.
right, wide eyes staring into the falling dark.
Then that's the sort he wast He'd cast her out . . . spat
upon her . . . The Master sat beside his warm fireplace
. . . and mother and child could perish.
"But I have . . . her . . ." The thought Hashed
through her brain, her eyes shot like lightning over the
blond head nestling against her. "Come . . . Jan dear.
come . . ."They went into a tiny basement coffee shop to
warm d1emselves. A strange woman joined them . . .
chatting friendlywise . . . putting clever questions ...
drawing the story from Katrine's lips distorted in angry
contempt. Oh . . . he'd give in, she assured them ...
such a handsome young woman, and this sweet gentle girl,
too . . . Of course he'd give in. But they mustn't soften
. . . they must meet defiance with defiance. She talked on.
with occasional casual mention of mysterious things, much
money, silken gowns. Then she paid the bill, and took
them both with her . . . she'd find them a place to
live. . . .

_j]
 THE RED HOUSE 47
A lveek later, the proud lord of the Matschaker Manor
drove into town behind his four horses, to settle accounts
with his summer love and to take home his disobedient
niece.
It was too late. They were both registered girls living
in a house of bad repute. Hot and sweet that inoment of
revenge for Katrine. Had he struck her down the very
next second, still she had seen this proud man as no one
else had ever seen him . . . crushed . . . broken . . .
pale to his thick hull's neck, every drop of blood drained
from his broad peasant face . . . his skin yellow . . .
dead. . . .
"You devil," he had hissed. Nothing more.
Janka lay sobbing on the floor; he spurned her with his
foot and went out.
"Devil . . ." Yes, in that one moment she had known a
fiendish happiness. . . . She had thrown herself down be-
side Janka, kissed her hands and laughed . . . laughed
until the landlady came and ordered quiet. Her laughter
had, at last, drowned out in her ears the memory of
his. . . .
.. Be quiet, Jan, he'll come back . . . he'll find a little
house for you some\vhere in the woods . . . plenty of
men in his employ would be proud to take you . . .
you're still a Matschaker daughter. . . ."
Yes, it would be best even now. Janka had never been
suited to this life . . . and what did any other living crea-
ture matter to her, Katrine? Who knows what might still
be her {ate? A count maybe . . . fine carriage and good
clothes . . . She drained the bottle, and then . . . in a
dirn sense of having done some one wrong, she opened the
door to tht! kitchen.
They were both there, on the floor, cleaning up . . .
"dn't even see her. . . . "Janka," she whispered softly.
Mockery died {Tom her eyes, as they clung to the bent
 THE RED HOUSE
figure .•. only twenty-eight and she looked like an old
woman a •• the daughter of a proud house . .. why
should she be lying there, scrubbing dirt? And that child
with her? They were doing it . . . for her sake? . . . yes
. . . why else?
For the first time this idea dawned on her soul.
It was not remorse that moved her, only a certain terror
of her own self, such as comes to great geniuses or great
criminals who suddenly glimpse their own power, and
shudder. Without a word she walked through the kitchen
out into the corridor. A veil of blood danced before her
burning eyes. She leaned against the wall . . . dizzy. . ·• .

§7
EAcH day brought something new. Mrs. Lorinser waa
called to see the new Olvner, Mrs. Goldscheider, several
times and brought home a bagfull of authentic and excit·
•
1ng news.
Mrs. Goldscheider was a fine lady who wore silk every..
day, and big green stones. She didn't interview people,
she just waved her hand and walked through the room.
There was Miss Olympia for all else, a "live dame," black..
haired, nicely rouged; she told her a lot of things.............
Goldscheider owned the big wine room on the Ring
she had just sold to the Italian, Miss Carlotta, I
Sucher's girl, and that crimp found her The Red House
its place. It was to be all made over . . . just like they
in Paris . . . The girls nodded in resignation. Yes,
Sucher was back of it . . . no help for it. But the greatest
excitement \vas aroused by the announcement that
"new lady" was coming to look them over. She might
the youngest and the prettiest.
The girls gathered together in comers, comparing n
hopes and fears.
 THE RED HOUSE 49
"No, I'm not stayin' ," said big blond Rose, shaking her
tousled head. "I been in that sort o' place. You got no
cares, that's true, but no money for yourself neither. And
when you're sick . . . out you go. Then you can go it
alone. They don't want you in the bordels."
Mrs. Lorinser repeated Miss Olympia's words, "But you
get your chance. It ain't just men from the street, it's fine
gentlemen that come . . . only the rich ones can afford it.
And you get good food, and maybe the chance to get up
in the world. . . ."
All had some experience to tell . . . of girls who had
married rich from bordels . . . of the troubles of "goin'
it alone on the street," men that took you then threatened
your life if you asked for your money. And the greedy
landlady . . . the police graft . . . No, it would be
mighty good to be under the protection ef such a fine lady.
She'd know how to treat you. . . .
"Yep,'' said the Hungarian girl mockingly, "and that
fine lady'll ask you to do things . . . make your hair
stand on end. I tell you. . . . I know. . . ."
The house from top to bottom seethed with preparation
for the new owner's visit. Only Katrine remained calm
and indifferent. What did she care? If the new Madam
didn't keep her there were plenty of other places. Cleverly
she evaded Janka's anxious queries. "Take a drink, and
you'll forget all about it."

Mrs. Goldscheider arrived one rainy Sunday, in the

early afternoon when no one expected her. No one knew
who had let her in. Suddenly, there she was, looking about
with keen eyes. She studied the size and height of the
rooms, the thickness of wall, examined windows and doors.
The girls, still sleep-dazed, unkempt, bedraggled, gathered
in groups, stared at the slender woman with waved red
 THE RED HOUSE
hair and a delicately cut Jewish nose. She returned their
stare with a sharp glance through her gold-rimmed glasses.
Lorinser, bowing and scraping, offered introductions.
Mrs. Goldscheider brushed her aside, opened her coat, sat
down and told the girls to come up one by one.
She examined their documents carefully, put casual
questions designed to fathom possible tricks, nodded here
and there, smiled. It seemed all so simple. Yet the girls,
who had endured much of this sort of thing, colored
angrily at moments. Some had run to their rooms, arranged
their hair, laid on rouge. But the cold afternoon light
made even the younger ones look old, faded. More than
two-thirds were turned down.
"No use for you" was the curt word to Olinka Brecher.
But a cordial smile showed pretty Gisi with the big blue
eyes that she could stay. Hungarian Rosa, too, met ap-
proval. But the girl declared curtly, "I don't stay in no
borde!." Madame shrugged and passed on to the next.
Janka had on a new red collar, and stood bare·footed,
shivering. ·'Too old," declared Madame, turning to
Katrine whose fearless eyes defied her. "How about me?''
she laughed, mocking. Mrs. Goldscheider's brows drew
up, she scanned the young woman with the glance of an
expert. Just the sort she needed. "You stay." Katrine was
the fifth and last chosen. All the others were to go.
"Eight days to pack up," was Madame's dictum. Then
to the chosen ones, "I'll find a place for you until the
house is ready. Be reasonable and you'll have an easy time
of it. Each one gets an entirely new outfit of good clothes.
You'll earn well in my place, and I'm not the sort to be
.
unjust to any one.
,,
She rose, buttoned her jacket. "You five move to Lam-
berg's this week . . . and bring me your signed contract.''
Katrine stepped in front of her as she turned to the
door. "One thing more I got to talk over." Speaking, she
 THE RED HOUSE
· loosened the scarf around her head, shaking down her
coppery curls. "I have a child . . . and she ...." with a
glance towards Janka, "she belongs to me too."
"She'll have to find another place. How old is the
child?·'
"Eleven . . . no, twelve. Quiet little girl . . . don't
bother any one, knows how to work . . . don't she?" The
other girls nodded, indifferent.
Janka stepped forward. "Yes, she's a clever, useful little
thing."
Katrine stared. This from Janka? What was she up to?
"The police don't like children of school age in houses, ..
said Mrs. Golclscheider, thinking it over.
"She's through with school by autumn,, declared Janka.
"Then she can go into service here in the house."
"Very well . . . she can stay, for the time being." Then,
ready to leave, she addressed the waiting, bowing Lorinser
woman. "You're leaving on the fifteenth." And she was
gone, out of the door.
Tumult followed. Lorinser raged, the girls laughed
maliciously. There was sympathy for those not chosen, but
they declared themselves satisfied.
"You're shut up like a bird in a cage," said Hungarian
Rosa. "You can't even get out for a walk. Even if you
really want to go to church, she won't let you. . . ."
Gisi turned to Katrine. They had not been overfriendly,
but she felt that those who were to return should hang
together. "And you can keep the little girl, too."
Katrine jerked out of her dream. "The girl? . . . well,
I can't throw her out on the garbage, can I?" she replied
crossly, and hurried to her room. She must see clear, must
know what was Janka's game? Didn't they want the child
now? . . . Now when they might have had her? For days
she'd waited for her friend to speak . . . in vain. Whv?
52 THE RED HOUSE

§8
W RILE she slowly climbed· the stairs, cogitating, Janka
sat on the pile of wood in front of the stove, with Milada
between her knees. Tears streamed over the woman's face
as she eagerly whispered into the child's waiting ear, the
little brown fingers clasped in her Olvn work-hardened
hands.
"You understand?" The child nodded. "You must
watch out for her . . . take good care of her . . . don't
mind if she does flare up . . ." She brushed the hair from
her forehead, stared out unseeing. "She's good . . . good
. . . you mustn't listen to a bad word now and then . . .
but wait on her, because she never did any hard work.
She don't like sweets . . . but be sure she has her apples
and her glass of wine each day. And listen, child. . • ."
"Shove off." They had not heard Katrine come in. She
looked down at the two, hands on hips, and laughed scorn-
fully.
"What you yolvling about? We two pack up and get
out . . . You get out now." She turned on Milada who
ran out, frightened. "We two move out together . . . as
we came. That's that." Janka started up, hands out·
stretched.
"No . . . no, Katrine. You stay here . . . you belong
in a good house. You're better looking than any of them
. . . and who knows what. . . .,
"Ratsl" Katrine crossed her arms, scowling. "What do I
care for that Jew Madam and her bordel? We'll go to-
gether."
"No . . . no. Don't throw away your chance . • . you'll
live here like a fine lady. . . ."
"And you? I'm to let you die on a dungheap? Or may-
be . . ." her eyes questioned, suspicious •.. "you'll
into a convent?"
 THE RED HOUSE 58
Janka shook her head, but the gleam far down in her
eyes, faithful dog's eyes, belied the gesture. "Hm . . • I
thought so .. ." Katrine smiled bitterly. "No expecting
fidelity from Matschaker blood."
"Katrine . . . I was true to you. I stood by you as
long as you needed me. Now, in your new life, there's no
place for me. You know that, Katrine. I've not bargained
with you, all these years. You won't bargain now. I paid
back, bit by bit, the wrong Andreas did to you. I did not
reckon and bargain, all the years. But even pennies mount
up, Katrine. Who knows . . . whether the Matschaker
folk still you anything." Janka flushed, trembled, but
held steadfast.
Katrine seemed to shrink together. Softly, complaining,
she asked, "And the child? Want her to . . . you know
what they'll make of her here?"
Janka replied, "There's so much been going through
my head . . . Am I doing right? I thought, too, she must
get away from here. I wanted to get her out, if it cost my
own soul . . . but it's grown so weak . . . my soul, in all
these years." Mechanically her trembling fingers smoothed
her hair. "She's of stronger stuff . . . she'll not weaken
... she's your sort, Katrine. You and your blood belong
together, in misery, as in happiness. Don't push her away
from you . . . do you hear? Hold fast to your child."
Katrine, half-turned away, made an imperious gesture
with one hand. But Janka caught the hand and repeated
... with a strangely imploring note, "No . . . don't
push her away . . . don't look down on her. She wants to
be with you . . . she wants your love. Watch her, Katrine,
abe's good stuff. You may need her when evil days come,
Katrine."
a a oa aan olf'011 ro ooaoens aooo oocrnoo a oan crnoo no o

BOOK TWO-SALON
GOLDSCHEIDER

o 0..._0 o o o o___o o o o o_o o o o o o on o CUUlO o o..u o o o QJlO o o o o o_o o o tl.

§1

SEPTEMBER of that year saw the opening of the old

Red House under new management. It was successful from
the start. Old friends came back, new ones looked in,
curious. Habitues brought new customers, and soon the
rumor spread that the material and management of the
Salon Goldscheider were of the best.
Prices were high enough to frighten off a certain class
of visitors, resulting in an agreeable social level. The
guests were never cheated, had no unexpected expenses,
and neither the Madam nor the girls looked askance if a
man merely drank his wine or schnapps and then went
out. It did not happen often, however, for the girls were
young, pretty and well trained.
Really, they seemed even well-bred. There was no flavor
of broken lives about them, nor the stupid impudence of
the chance adventuress. In short, The Red House became
a feature of city life, of itself the best assurance of success.
Madame Goldscheider was pleased, for she had not
undertaken this particular enterprise without considerable
misgiving. It had come about in this way: in the course of
her many operations, she had taken a famous wine-room
with girls as waitresses, in payment of a bad debt, and,
54
 THE RED HOUSE 55
ignorant herself of such business, had turned the tnanage-
ment over to a clever Italian girl who was one of the head
,vaitresses. Carlotta was not only pretty and intelligent; she
,vas also the mistress of Police Superintendent Sucher
whose influence was valuable and far-reaching. After a
successful year or so, Carlotta grew tired of working for
some one else . . . particularly as both Mrs. Goldscheider
and her factotum, the former high school teacher, now
private tutor, Horner, had a way of studying the accounts
very carefully. Carlotta urged Sucher to lease the business
for her. Sucher was not blind to the advantages of an in-
dependent control, but he knew Goldscheider to be just
as businesslike as he himself and he feared a firm refusal.
Carlotta had permitted the three waitresses to disappear
from time to time with the frequenters of the cafe,
although this was contrary to police regulations. Horner
insisted that Mrs. Goldscheider was not getting her share
of the proceeds from this end of the traffic. Carlotta com-
plained to Sucher of these demands and the latter finally
approached Horner with a magnificent proposal. He had
heard the owner of The Red House wanted to sell, and
he suggested to Horner that he should arrange for Mrs.
Goldscheider to take over that house, giving the cafe to
Carlotta in exchange, on terms which he outlined.
"I ain't asking the lady to open a common brothel," he
'xplained when Horner declared Mrs. Goldscheider
wouldn't consider such a business for a moment. "But The
Red House is different. If you take that place in hand . . .
well, man, just think of the location, around the corner
&om the very center of to"'n, hotels, theaters. My God!
Properly run, the way they do those things in Germany or
and I guarantee a profit of one hundred and
ty per cent. No . . . I mean it . . . and no danger.
. . I'll guarantee no police interference. Just think now
.. fifteen or twenty nice rooms, pretty girls, coffee, cold
 THE RED HOUSE
cuts, good wines and beer, music, card rooms, poker games
o o Now just figure it out, Doctor."
•

Horner was non-committal, but promised to speak to

Mrs. Goldscheider at once.
She listened, politely amused, short-sighted eyes-twink...
ling. "Homer," she said, "good old friend, don't feel in..
suited . . . but that sort of thing wouldn't suit me, nor
would I suit in it. . . ."
"Oh . . . I thought so," he exclaimed. "That's what the
late David Goldscheider, with his pious ideas, has made
out of you. No, Elise, when you were a young girl, at
home, you'd have caught up an offer like that in a
minute. You were unspoiled then."
"Now don't misunderstand, Horner, that isn't my objec-
tion. I'm a plain business woman, and I take hold lVhere.
ever profit offers. But I don't understand the first thing
about that business . . Only a woman with experience
o

should attempt it . . . and where should I get the ex.

perience, I ask you?"
''Yes . . . virtue is a bad hurdle for such a career. You'll
have to take it in a gallop."
"Too late, Horner, after all these years of virtue . 0 •

and then my child . . ." she spoke the name softly, ten·
derly . . . "Alma Lucy. . . ."
"Now you listen, Elise. Whether you deal in old clothes
or young bodies, what can it matter to that long-hai
young Miss in the high-class Dresden school? I don't .......... .,.,
much about money, but I was impressed by the fi
our noble police friend threw off so easily."
Again the woman studied the documents and
tions. Then she sighed. "It's a good business, all
But it's a business one ought to learn from inside,
success.''
"Elise, your soul's wings are heavy. They lack lifti
power. The idea, woman . . . think of the idea! You
 THE RED HOUSE 57
as it were, custodian of the pleasures of love . . . you
bring the right man to the right woman, and get your rake..
off. Keep that idea in mind . . . the details are easily
learned. You have time yet . . . take a look around, go
into Germany, France . . . see how others are doing it:•
Sucher encouraged the idea of a study trip. "You'll see,
Madam, how easy it is. Why, there's a lot of simple women
from the country come in, take a flat and make heaps of
money renting to the girls. Just let the sluts see you hold
the reins . . . then the cart runs of itself."
Horner laid out the route: Budweis, Olmiitz, Znaim,
Aussig . . . Sucher gave introductions everywl\ere. Then
over the border, Dresden, Hamburg . . . the Germans
knew how to run their houses . . . worth while keeping
in touch with them for new material.
Elise Goldscheider agreed. The deal was put through.
And while she traveled and studied, Sucher was busy at
home. The nameless alley was cleaned up, christened,
police raids made on doubtful houses, setting the inhabi-
tants of that murky corner on edge and preparing them
for what was to come. . . .

Elise Goldscheider visited the notorious military

brothels in Austrian garrison towns, the larger and smaller
half-lvorld houses, trying to win an intelligent insight
into methods and details of management. Well equipped
with letters of introduction from Sucher and his hench..
men, the intelligent, '\veil-dressed, liberal woman was re-
ceived everywhere without the suspicion usually shown
curious outsiders. Garrison towns in the provinces were
Battered that she should come to them from the metropolis,
and were ready with advice and suggestions. Mrs. Gold-
scheider had open eyes and a keen robust intelligence. She
soon saw the underlying principle that leads to success or
failure. Before she finished her trip, she had decided that
 THE RED HOUSE
the establishtnent which came nearest, in appearance and
management, to a respectable middle-class home, was the
surest guarantee of success. Places that had the flavor of
cheap cabarets, dives, too closely connected with the
wretchedness of the street women, might attract for a mo-
ment but could not hold the best-paying customers.
Hamburg confirmed her decision, in its sharp contrasts
of types. Here she saw the internationally infamous sailors'
dives, \vith their atmosphere of vicious violence. Some of
the 0'\Vners confessed that the orgies and excesses of which
such places were the frequent scene ·were dangerous and by
no means profitable. But they could not help themselves.
Their establishments were known the world over by their
ill-repute, and they were compelled to live up to it.
In that same Hamburg, in an attractive residence quar-
ter, near many of the costly palaces of millionaire mer-
chants and ship-ol"vners, was the house kept by Georgette
de Villiers, a charming white-haired woman of aristocratic
beauty, to whom Mrs. Goldscheider brought a letter of in-
troduction from a Lubeck agent.
Elise Goldscheider had become hardened to all sorts of
experiences by this time, but her first evening in the
--salon Georgette" confused her completely. The house
was open three evenings a week only. As Madame de
Villiers explained with her sweet maternal smile, these
all-night parties were exhausting and her little girls mus
have their sleep.
For the first hour of her visit there Elise Goldscheidett
fought her doubts that she might have wandered, by a
fatal mistake, into some highly respectable gathering ·
one of the nearby private palaces. These charming, w
behaved young ladies, in pink or white, with the
creetest of necklines, entertained the guests with well-
conversation, usually in daintily hesitant French, wh
Madame Georgette corrected busily-touching a bo'v h
 THE RED HOUSE 59
a rebellious curl there, the while. It was all so decorous
that one scarcely noticed when one or the other would dis-
appear during the course of the evening. Seven girls alto-
gether. And Mrs. Goldscheider noticed that never more
than three were permitted to be absent at one time. There
were always four left, to chat with the guests. Tea was
passed and Ii ttle cakes.
There ·was no clink of gold, no sign of bargaining, every-
thing passed around just as at any bourgeois evening
gathering. Some one played piano, some one sang. One
girl, an exquisite creature from Berlin, was shy and re-
fused to sing. Mme. Georgette persuaded her kindly, and
ended with a lofty gesture. "But my dear child, our
friends do not criticize, they enjoy."
Then the girl sang, a charmingly simple little song with
an odd haunting melody. When she finished, amid great
applause in which Mme. Georgette led, turning to one of
the men, "Well, Consul Wychers, we're not sorry we had
that little girl trained, are we? Paris will be grateful to us
some day, hein1"
And something happened that evening, which quite
dazed the Austrian visitor.
Mme. de Villiers crossed to one of the men and handed
him a diamond stud, saying, with casual grace, "Baron
Palestra, our foolish little Suzanne took this charming
stone, to tease you. I'm giving it back before you miss it."
Palestra took the stud, flushing deeply. Suzanne, an
Alsatian beauty, had cast longing eyes at it, and he had
given it to her. But Mme. de Villiers considered this frank
Official presentation quite shocking and her return of the
em was a delicate reprimand. When the girl wore it,
a brooch, several days later, not another word was said.
Was there profit in this system? Elise Goldscheider asked
herself. The visitors were all well-dressed, well-bred men
of evident wealth. Georgette wore few but costly jewels of
6o THE RED HOUSE
undeniable value. She had her car, her opera box, and-
she confessed it herself-the passion of betting at the races.
Flattered by the stranger's open admiration she revealed
her secret wisdom. "Is it necessary to make of the sweet
necessity of love, la belle usance) an ugly commercial enter-
prise? I would not, for no price in the world, Madame,
allow my girls to become the prey of coarse, unkempt men.
My soul would know no easy moment did I sacrifice these
innocent ones . . . innocent because they were born to be
the playthings of man, guiltless themselves . . . should I
plunge them into misery for my profit. This, Madame, is
my philosophy. All life is but a gteat market. One buys or
one sells . . . that is all there is to it. Voyons! Would we
sell, we should train ourselves as for a profession. And love
is such a profession, Madame. It is a hunger that is inborn
and must be satisfied. And yet, while butchers, bakers,
fishermen, feel the dignity of their trade, the woman who
sells the noblest wares of all, moments of joy, of oblivion,
this woman is degraded to a base tool. Is there anything
more natural than the attraction of youth to youth? And
yet the world looks with contempt on these women. In..
comprehensible . . . this newest spleen of humanityl"
"The newest, Madame?" Elise Goldscheider shook her
head in doubt.
"It has persisted for two thousand years, but what does
that little time mean in the history of humanity? Hardly
more than the passing mood of a grand seigneur. But I
will say this, Madame: we, the entrepreneurs, the capital-.
ists, I mean, are usually at fault. We rob the girls of their
humanity and degrade them to will-less, and ..-n.-.. .:
joyless slaves. For only our own will, Madame, can
happiness..,
Mrs. Goldscheider found such ideas original, and qui
admirable. But possible of execution only in a city
Hamburg, wealthy, free from any allegiance to seign·"'.......
 THE RED HOUSE 61
nobility, international in character and furnishing a rich
clientele . . . Hardly elsewhere. . . .
Madame Georgette bubbled out, "Oh, Madame, tran-
chons le mot! I know all those phrases. ExcusezJ Madame.
I am an old woman, and I have seen much. All that is
only the entrenchment of egotism . . . no . . . do not
take me for a philanthropist . . . But I realize ho'v fool-
ish it is to cling close to these old ideas . . . manies fixes.
No, Madame, la fille du joi . . . as long as we recognize
her as an indispensable factor in our social structure,
should feel her life is not merely tolerated, but justified.
She need not necessarily be reckless, deceitful, greedy, lazy
or diseased. In towns, large or small, in fifty gulden houses
or penny barrooms . . . these fundamental principles of
decency, justice and charity should rule."
Madame de Villiers rose, then paused for one last word.
"My young ladies would indeed open their eyes did any
cruel man tell them that he despises them for their man-
ner of life l You have seen them, Madame . . . are they
not adorable, intelligent, charming? They believe them-
selves to be desired, chosen, loved for their good qualities,
their youth and beauty. Nature gives the courtesan shape-
liness, laughter, the chann of intensified femininity . . .
and I, Madame, I add to this a pride in herself."
The agent in Lubeck told Mrs. Goldscheider more
about Madame Georgette. She was wealthy, could retire
at any moment, but she liked the business. She treated
her girls well . . . but it was difficult to find the right
kind of goods for her. Twenty would come back where one
was kept. Georgette, as the man expressed it, was breeding
type of grande cocotte} the classic French demi-mon-
e. And she was particular about her customers, too. A
of bad repute, no matter how wealthy or highborn,
denied admittance. There was a story that went the
about a young millionaire of good family who was
....& ....Ao;!O
 THE RED HOUSE
compelled to show a doctor's certificate with the bill that
was the ticket of admission to Georgette's salon.
Horner was enthusiastic at the report of this Hamburg
idyl. Marvellous . . . that such things could be, in the
morass of modem Europe! "This unique woman/, he ex..
claimed, "has realized the crying need of our era with
its proletarian demoralization and degradation of pleasure.
She understands the subtle wisdom of the female body.
This Frenchlvoman has the soul of a Greek." He banged
the table with his fist. "Do likewise. Train a young, fresh.
untouched soul . . . active, ambitious . . . a woman
with the will to leadership, organizing genius and the
charm of a Love Goddess. Then, farewell to masculine
arrogance . . . pride of maleness. Elise, we two may yet
weave the whiplash for the monstrous dictator-vanity of a
decadent age. We will make of harlotry a statute law. Wait,
ye Philistines . . . wherewith ye sin, therewith shall ye
punished! And your lauded Evangel-wisdom shall become
Truth at last!.,
"Stop your nonsense, Horner," said Mrs. Goldscheider.
"Georgette•s methods would be impossible here. We have
no merchant princes who can lay down a thousand mark
bill for admission to a brothel. The agent was quite right
when he said Georgette ran a training school for high-
class mistresses. Can't be done here. But you are at liberty
to search for your ideal in The Red House," she closed
with a laugh, for she did not want to anger him. She still
needed him.
§2
THE opening was early in autumn. The Red House
there, its bright-hued brick cleaned, its \Vindows
its blue and yellow paneled house-door embellished WI
a brass bell-button. Three cabs brought the young
who were to be its main attraction. The corridor
 THE RED HOUSE 6g
stairs were new-carpeted, palms and pots '"'ith ivy stood
about, the marble figure of a child held the hall lamp. It
was all so clean, new, friendly, the girls from the old Red
}louse exchanged approving glances. Yes, this was dif-
ferent. The new janitress, Mrs. Poliska, smiling, robust,
came out from her cubby-hole and welcomed them.
"Praise be, that old slut is gone," whispered Fritzi to
Katrine.
Miss Olympia, lieutenant and confidante of Mrs.
scheider, did the honors for the moment. She lvas a tightly-
laced lady with sharp brunette face, and nodding curls
over her forehead. She showed them the salon, with its
bordeaux-red plush furniture, its white lace curtains.
There were pictures on the walls, marble consoles with
vases, many wonderful things. But most marvellous of alJ
was the full-length gold-framed mirror between the win·
dows. Katrine clapped her hands in delight.
"My Lord . . . you can see your whole selfr' she
claimed.
Katrine's face had changed in these short weeks of prep-
aration. She had learned to do her hair modishly, to make
up so that there was no hint of line or crowsfeet. But the
cosmetics flattened and dulled her features, and the self-
satisfied smile fixed upon them robbed them of all their
former individuality and vital fascination.
The former Red House tenants were loud in apprecia-
tion and astonishment. The new girls were more blase, or
assumed the part, and merely shrugged. They'd seen all
that, they gave to understand. Even Miss Olympia, while
· ·ng it, dropped a hint that for any one who had lived
Paris . . . 1 Mrs. Goldscheider took the girls into her
uu... one by one, and handed each a paper to sign. Most
them signed without further investigation. They hadn't
idea what it was all about, some thought it probably
sort of contract "that they couldn't run a·way." Why run
 THE RED HOUSE
away? They had a nice place to live in and good clothes.
One slender Austrian, who had been a hotel chambermaid
in Switzerland, said the paper was full of long rows of
figures . . . like a bill. But what matter?
Girls who had had bordel experience were impressed
by their new Madam's tone. Their dulled minds felt a
vivifying breath of life \vhen Mrs. Goldscheider said to
them, "None of you need go to pieces here. It's entirely
up to you. If you'll keep sober, you have every possible
chance. Any one of you can go out to a respectable, com-
fortable life, if she is clever and watches her step." The
words were her weapon against the sense of hopelessness,
of the futility of self-will or effort from which springs the
moral weakness and degradation of the prostitute. "You're
all young and attractive; you must succeed!"
The girls feared their new Madam, but they respected
her.
"She's hard as nails, but she knows her business. She
isn't always asking for money, and she don't slobber over
one when guests are here. She's always the same." And they
felt that their lot might have fallen in a worse place.
They were not quite satisfied with the clothes given
them, however. Not that the go\vns were o]d style or cheap
. . . no, indeed, everything was of silk, and right up-to-
the-minute. But it was so quiet, "like a chambermaid's
dress," said Bibi who had been in Aussig and Teplitz.
In the "Excelsior" in Teplitz all the girls \Vore was a lace
chemise with sometimes a silk negligee over it, nothing
more. But that wasn't allowed here, not even late in the
aight. One or two had come back to the salon in negligee
and been sent upstairs immediately. The Madam wouldn't
'tand for any such doings.
And in other ways the establishment moved like clock-
work. Trays were brought to the bedrooms at eleven each
morning, a good pot of strong coffee, and nice rolls and
 THE RED HOUSE
biscuits . . . "like mother used to make." The girls were
encouraged to eat heartily. The food was abundant and
well-prepared. But there weren't many sweets and Madam
frowned on buying such elsewhere. "Only makes you fat
and gives no strength., "Yes, that's so," agreed the girls.
Elise Goldscheider brought to bear on her ne'v enter-
prise all the pedantic accuracy and businesslike methods
she had learned in a long mercantile career. She was care-
ful to keep the girls in good humor for their "work." In-
trigues, quirrels in which one side or the other reckoned
on Madam's support, broke helplessly against the rock of
her even justice. She permitted no favorites and no scape-
goats. Stubborn, inadaptable natures that would not bend
to the discipline of the house were dismissed. The Madam
liked her girls to be gay and bright, not overloud or im-
pudent, but cheery.
"Our clients must enjoy themselves. That goes for any-
where, of course. But I want them to say of you, 'Those are
darling girls.' "
Her wise encouragement, her evenly benevolent treat-
ment, free from any tyranny, revived in these young souls
the spirit of joyousness natural to youth.
"Can any of you dance?" she asked one evening. "I can
. . . I can," came quick answers. But Irma, a sprightly
little Hungarian, without waiting for '\VOrds swung into a
dashing Czardas that made the vases rattle and brought
do,vn rounds of applause. Madam had her piano player
practice several dances with the girl, and their perform-
ance became a feature of the evenings.
Others came forward with pretty little tricks that enter-
tained. Some had good voices. Timidly, in shy emulation,
they offered their little arts. Enthusiasm in the impromptu
performances, pleasure in success brightened their eyes,
enhanced their young beauty. They were as appealing as
a group of pretty schoolgirls, the aim and purpose of it all
66 THE RED HOUSE
forgotten for the moment . . . which was exactly the
effect desired by the calculating Madame Goldscheider.
One evening Katrine went forward to the piano, spoke
to the musician, and began to sing, melancholy little Czech
love songs that moved some of the girls to tears. The men
were startled at first, then shook with laughter. Fok·
Katrine had adopted a new manner of singing. Instead of
letting her small but sweet-toned voice flow out naturally,
she tossed her head, closed her eyes and squeezed the tones
to sentimental quaverings. She was quite satisfied with her
performance and its reception.
Katrine was past thirty now, and the fascination of her
unique and virile personality faded perceptibly in the new
environment. She was now only the harlot fighting for
daily bread, seeking in cheap substitutes forgetfulness of
years of misery. Janka's going had cut the last tie that
bound her to the past. She was free . . . her dreams sank
to ashes . . . her lust for revenge was dead. She lived
only for the noisy night hours and the extra tips they
brought her.
Contrary to all her former habits she had her·
self to Olympia, who, realizing how unpractical was
Katrine, supplied her with a romantic history so palpably
untrue that it deceived no one. Katrine, once restless, find-
ing no interest in gossip, in petty things, needing more
virile stimuli to awaken a sense of intoxication, Katrine
would sit by the hour in chit-chat, in petty scandals, in
comfortable companionship that wrapped her once heady
temperament in lukewarm laziness. But her body was still
fine-limbed, lithe, alluring; and here, as on the street, she
did not lack customers who returned often.
Acting on Olympia's advice she dyed her wild coppery
hair flaxen blond, and took the name of Carmen. She de-
veloped a lot of little pet superstitions, and she and Olym-
 THE RED HOUSE
pia would sit by the hour over a card table, playing soli-
taire or telling fortunes.
Attacks of short breathing, heart palpitation, coming
more and more frequently, worried her. But she hid them
from all others, tried home remedies, and when this did
not help, she began to drink, in secret, letting Milada
smuggle the wine up to her room. Wine drove away the
sense of heaviness in her limbs, the recurring uncanny
rigidity that for moments at a time seemed to hold her
body paralyzed from the waist down.
Milada spent her days with the janitress and slept in a
little attic room where her friends, the black and white
rats, came out again to keep her company. She did light
work of all sorts around the house, or ran errands. Mrs.
Goldscheider took her along when she had anything to
carry. Milada wore long skirts and usually a shawl that hid
her childish outlines.
The day Katrine returned to the renovated Red House,
Milada stood, wide-eyed, beside the janitress, lvaiting for
a word of recognition. She had been separated from her
mother for months, had been quartered with cross-grained
strangers who had cared as little for her as for an ownerless
dog. The child had shrunk in on herself, and her thoughts
had haloed her mother's picture in an aureole of tender-
ness. The memory of occasional friendly words or looks
bad awakened to fresh warm life in her lonely little heart.
Now she stood leaning against the wall; a gleam of im.
patient longing brightened the eager brown face.
Her mother, in a beautiful silken gown and stylish hat,
hung on the arm of a strange young lady, looked about,
laughing. Apparently she had not seen the girl. But Fritzi
held her back. "Look, Katrine . . . there's the kid:·
Katrine turned her eyes slowly, raised her brows and said,
lazily, "How she's grown . . ." Then she gathered her
68 THE RED HOUSE
long rustling skirts, and walked on, behind Olympia..••
Not another word.
The child's head drooped. She listened for a moment to
the laughter and chatter from above, then crept out into
the dark courtyard.
She had bought apples for her mother with the silver
piece given her by kind Aunt Celestine the last day of
school. She had wheedled the janitress into choosing one
of the best rooms for her mother, although Mrs. Poliska
insisted, "They're all alike here." But the woman liked the
biddable child, and let her carry the best cushions, cur-
tains, ornaments into Katrine's room.
Then, the great day over, life's first great disillusion-
ment, cruel, bitter, came to Milada. Her mother was no
more, here in the new Red House, than any of the others.
Worse: she chummed with them, with girls she had never
spoken to, shared her wine with them, crept into bed for
hours of gossip. And she was afraid of the Madam ..•
she, once so fearless.
The child saw, and sorrowed. Pride in her mother, deep-
rooted, crumbled to dust. Yet Milada scarce knew why.
Katrine still ranked as a beauty ahd men sought her
eagerly. But she w·as no longer Black Katrine of The Red
House, who could toss her head so proudly, whose bright
laughter held mockery. The child's instinct told her that
Katrine had stepped down from her lonely height, and
was now no more than the others. She herself had nar-
rowed the distance that lay between herself and the others
of her kind.
Weeks and months went by, in The Red House, in
smooth monotony. Business boomed, increasing every day;
the girls were happy and eager. Katrine walked past the
child, busy cleaning, setting to rights, as if nothing had
ever bound this little life to hers. It was not a conscious
 THE RED HOUSE 6g
ignoring, not hatred or bitterness. Her very soul was
lamed, its wings broken.
She showed no interest when Milada slipped into her
room, to make it tidy, to bring some little thing for her
comfort. Katrine lay in her bed, or sat at the dressing
table, unheeding. Once when she seemed suddenly to
notice, or "vhen Milada ventured a timid question, the
mother snarled, "I don't want anything." The child crept
out, with an apronful of half rotten apples she had
found in the closet or on the floor. Katrine did not like
apples now. And later, when the terrible attacks of breath..
lessness, heart cramp, came over her, when she fought for
breath with bluing lips, an imperious gesture would dis..
miss the frightened child. Katrine wanted to be alone at
such times. No one must see, must know . . . and tell
the Madam. She wasn't ill . . . it would pass over . . . it
meant nothing. She locked her door, opening it only for
Milada to push in the wine bottle. She struggled alone
with her weakness; no one must know. . ..
Katrine did not see the longing in the big gray eyes
the heartache of desire to stay, to help.
Slowly, heavily, Milada's imagination tore itself free
from memories. The old Red House, Janka, and the
Katrine of former days, with her sweet smile, her caresses,
her whimsicalities and quick angers, they aU sank into a
sea of oblivion. There remained only this indolent bloated
woman who called herself Carmen, who loafed from one
room to the other in an aroma of alcohol, '"rho toadied to
the Madam, and cared only for her warm corner.
The growing girl, undisturbed in her "rat-cage," came
to lose all sense of kinship with this woman. She sank
deeper and deeper into a sadly unchildlike isolation,
illumined with flashes of bitter insight. And yet .. the
roots of love lie deep. The word mother still held a
friendly warmth, and in time came to embody the memory
 THE RED HOUSE
of a meager little woman, who drew the coverlet over her
at night and stroked her cheek with red workworn hands.
The evening came when Katrine had an attack in the
drawing-room. She felt her heart's mad beating, fought
for breath, struggled to reach the door in spite of the
horrible rigidity creeping through her back and limbs.
But she could scarce rise from her chair, sank helpless to
the floor. Strong hands caught her up, took her to her
room.
Next morning Mrs. Goldscheider looked in to investi-
gate. She suggested that Katrine had better take some less
strenuous place, say as bar-maid or wine-room cashier, in
a small town. She'd find her something. Katrine stared,
pale lips trembling. Must she go away? Wasn't she as good
as or better than any of the others? Why should this dis-
grace be put upon her? She'd been well and strong t.\11 her
life . . . she could still hold her own with any of them.
"Well," said Mrs. Goldscheider, calmly, "none of you
can expect to stay here always. Variety is the important
thing in our business.''
"But why just me?" murmured Katrine, broken by a
sense of defeat.
"All the same to me . . . but our guests demand
variety . . . new fresh faces. You'll get along anywhere.
You girls always make money the first weeks in nel\'
places." With that, the Madam left the room.
A few days later Dr. Lamberg came for a thorough
examination. Katrine laughed merrily, joked with him.
He patted her back, told her she'd outlive him and several
of these young cats hereabouts. She kic;sed his hands in
bubbling gratitude and felt she had outwitted danger.
To Madame Goldscheider, Dr. Lamberg reported Katrine
ill of an advanced kidney trouble, with heart complica-
tions, and advised that she be sent away as soon as possible.
 THE RED HOUSE
This suited the lady, for she had some fine new material in
prospect and Katrine was losing in attraction.
So one day, quite according to routine, four girls were
told to pack their grips and leave that evening for their
new posts. Fritzi went to Pilsen, two others to Troppau,
and Katrine was told her destination was Braunau. It
was a good place, Mrs. Goldscheider said; she'd taken pains
to find something nice. An American Bar, for civilians
only, plenty of tips. A man, waiting in the office, nodded in
confirmation. Katrine listened in silence. Her face was
bloated, the sallow skin showed pale beneath the rouge.
Her once so exquisite body had lost its outlines, blurred
in soft fat.
Mrs. Goldscheider straightened her glasses. "I'll keep
your girl here . . . you'll be rid of that care. The doctor
says you need rest. And don't drink . . . do you hear?"
Katrine's mouth drew down in folds of hopeless resigna-
tion. She no longer cared to hide her misery. She paid
little heed to Olympia's encouraging chatter and tales of
the good times ahead in Braunau, closed her big trunk
with a bang, threw herself on it, and put the wine bottle
to her lips. "Here's where they take us to the bone-yard."
But her laugh turned to an ugly leaden grin and Olympia,
shuddering, crept from the room.
Katrine slept until the hour for leaving. The janitress
awakened her at ten. Sound of music and laughter came
from the salon, but Katrine drew her lace shawl closer and
crept down into the office for her hat box and umbrella.
It was raining in torrents. There was no one to bid her
farewell; she left nothing behind her but fourteen years
of memories that fluttered around her, greedy, croaking
birds of prey.
Katrine did not tum as the janitress called, "Milada
. . . where is that girl?, When she returned from the
 I
THE RED HOUSE
kitchen with the door of the cab outside slammed,
and the vehicle rattled off.

§3
KATRINE's destiny fulfilled itself with cruel swiftness. Her
new employer realized that she would not please his
wealthier guests and hired her out to private clubs for
three evenings a week of degrading vice. He gave her •
a bare unheated room, she could buy food from her tips.
"You won't need clothes."
I
Dull, apathetic, Katrine did what was demanded of her,
living through the unoccupied hours in a drunken haze.
Health and morale suffered. Her stomach could not re-
tain the coarse food, she whipped up her weakened body ,
with alcohol. Good wine was beyond her means, she took
to cheap liquors. Finally the clubs registered complaints.
"She's drunk, just stands there stupid, bloated as a full
sponge."
Her employer's rough berating aroused Katrine. She
would not drink on the work evening, just a glass or so at
the last minute to brace her up. But Fate had marked her.
One evening she overdid the last-minute bracer. Naked,
holding a lighted candle in her hand, she sprawled to the
floor scattering the ring of men around and a foul-
smelling mess poured from her mouth onto the white fur
rug.
That was the end. The tragedy of vice knows no dis-
tinction. Visioned horrors that had clouded hours of de· 1
pression for young radiant Katrine became cruel reality.
One shapeless, unkempt, berouged woman the more,
roaming the darker streets, whining, begging . . . then,
when strength even for that gave out, a hideous witch of
a landlady keeping her in a bed of doubtful cleanliness,
smothered in cheap scent, bringing in customers ..•
•
 THE RED HOUSE 73
soldiers, day laborers, half-grown boys, drunken roughs
who came allured by the hag's tales of a ,.fine lady who
wanted to try a real he-man.''
Night for night Katrine lay there, fighting for breath,
until at last came the hour when the hag's worst curses
and floggings were of no avail . . . not even the vile
liquor she tried to pour between Katrine's clenched teeth.
Frightened, the hag finally called the police, bewailing her
lot, insisting she had cared for "Katie" as for her own
child.
Then the stretcher . . . heavy feet tramping rickety
stairs . . . the ambulance . . . the hospital. Efforts to de-
termine Katrine's identity seemed unavailing. The case
was hopeless, they soon ceased to annoy her with ques-
tions. She lay helpless, unable to speak clearly, unable to
eat or drink.
Some days later, a new patient recognized her, a girl
who had been in the Goldscheider Salon. "That's Car-
men. God . . . she looks fierce. She's got a little girl there,
with Goldscheider . . . little slavey. . . . She's most done
for, eh?" Shuddering, the still young creature turned from
the swollen form on the bed, the bluish lips, the breast
heaving in a struggle for breath.
Mrs. Goldscheider was notified, and the following day
Milada appeared with Poliska, the janitress.
uThey're here, from The Red House," shouted the
nurse bent over Katrine. The sick woman gasped, her
eyes opened slowly. "Come on, she's awake."
Mrs. Poliska murmured hasty words of comfort, pushed
Milada forward. Katrine's lips parted. "Jan .. ." she
gasped.
Milada stared into the ghastly white face. Her mother?
No, only Miss Carmen . . . this the thought in her mind.
How terrible she looked.
..Say something," whispered the janitress. Milada's
74 THE RED HOUSE
throat was cramped by fear, horror . . . horror of the
fact that she did not feel she knew this woman. It was her
mother dying there in the hospital ward . . . on that
narrow iron cot. Her mother . . . "Mother," she mur-
mured finally, low.
And slowly, gently, driven by longing that fought the
horror, her workworn little brown hand moved and caught
the clenched fingers, their chill striking to her heart. Be-
hind her the janitress whispered eager1y to the nurse, hand..
ing her a slip of paper. The nurse nodded. She pushed the
girl away, bent over the bed. "She wouldn't know you
now. It's that way when she can't breathe. Here . . . now
she's awake again . . . They're here, from The Red
House," she cried again.
Katrine's lids fluttered up, her eyes wandered. "Janka,'•
she breathed . . . "Funny,,. said the nurse. "That's the
only thing she's said, all these days. Here . . . sign this
paper, so your girl can stay in The Red House. Sign . . .
I tell you. You should have come sooner,,. she ,whispered to
the others.
Comprehension seemed dalvning in Katrine's eyes.
"]an," she gasped, "it's . . . it's . . . not . . . so
bad. . . ."
The nurse laid the pencil in her hand, closing her own
fist over the chill fingers. "Sign this . . . then your
Janka'll be safe."
Katrine refused, pushed the nurse's hand away. "Come
here . . . show her the girl. . . ."
The janitress came to the bed. "It's me . . . Poliska.
Don't you know me? You want your girl to stay with us,
don't you?"
"My girl . . ." whispered Katrine. A faint smile curled
her lips; she let her fingers be held for the signature.
"Now you better get out. The doctor'll give me hell,"
commanded the nurse.
 THE RED HOUSE 75
tAn odd drawing of the mouth, almost like a smile,
remained on Katrine's face even in the last agony.
That night, they carried her down to the hospital
morgue.
§4
SALON Goldscheider flourished. Another successful season
drew to a close. The girls were young, pretty, well-dressed,
endowed with temperament and wit. The customers were
interested, amused, spent money freely; the wines were
excellent, and a silver-toned piano ·was played by a real
musician. One could be "classical" there, too, in one's
choice of music.
A physician came twice a week to examine the girls.
Those showing the slightest suspicious sign were sent alvay
at once, even though the doctors might make light of it.
Mrs. Goldscheider stood fast on her contract, and sent the
sick ones to be cared for. If they returned cured, she found
them places in other houses. Madame Elise had developed
an active exchange traffic with provincial towns, and did
not care to keep any girl in her place who had been in
Department A.ll of the Public Clinic.
She was seldom able to make use of what she got in
exchange from the provinces. But Superintendent Sucher
was helpful, and Carlotta, too, proved of use. They both
had a wide acquaintance among cabarets, wine rooms,
small variety halls, public and private brothels, and could
iispose of any amount of "material" even though it was
already fading and on the downward path. Carlotta col-
lected them as Goldscheider sent them away, and in return
brought fresh "wares" collected frequently in middle-class
dancing clubs and respectable cafes. She and Mrs. Moos-
man, a plain, grotesquely crippled but very intelligent and
useful seamstress ·who worked for the Goldscheider house,
 THE RED HOUSE I

would visit such places and watch their chance to talk to a

girl here and there.
It was, of course, not always possible to win these girla
for an avowed bordel existence. But there were many, busy
during the day in poorer-paid positions of the "better
sort," governesses, reception clerks in offices, milliners and
dressmakers, models in department stores, pretty' wen.
dressed girls who would hire themselves out to the Salon
Goldscheider for half the night on a percentage of earn.
ings. Carlotta brought married women too, notorious
wives of traveling men and agents; but Elise refused all
such offers. The others, preferably girls without families,
came only when notified and when there was no danger of
a raid. But the amenable Sucher stepped in there, and
supplied Mrs. Goldscheider with extra registration cards
which could be used when needed.
There was one last but surest source from which Mrs.
Goldscheider drew her material with no risk to herself,
girls whom she could take in, train and exploit. This was
the public lying-in clinics and hospital wards. She encour-
aged friendly relations, based on good tips, with janitors
and nurses at these places and could depend on them to
notify her of any suitable case.
These girls, crushed by fate, ostracized, could see no
future, and greedily drank in the words of the nurse as
she pictured the possibilities of a carefree, luxurious life.
Then Madame Goldscheider stepped in and swept away
the last obstacle . . . in other words she took care of the
child. In most cases the unfortunates were only too glad
to be free of the burden. Motherhood had been to them
only a cruel awakening after a few days of pleasure.
In the narrow iron beds, with coarse grayish linen sheets,
lay teachers, housemaids, wives of working men, and girls
of good middle-class families, cast off by their provincial
relatives. There too were immature fourteen to sixteen·
 THE RED HOUSE 77
year-old children of the proletariat, gray-faced, emaciated,
glad of a roof to cover their misery.
On these expeditions Milada usually accompanied the
Madam. She sat in front with the chauffeur and took care
of the meager luggage. She could hear the whining or
weeping protests that sometimes arose from the interior
of the car. But before Carlotta's establishment or The
Red House was reached, kindly words had comforted, and
the luxury of the new surroundings did the rest.
Madame Goldscheider's deliberate choice of middle·
types, who could balance in the gap between the respect-
able sheltered girl and the paid prostitute, came, in time,
to give her house a definite character which was unusual
and attracted attention. Hers was a Shop for Love in which
the stereotyped prostitute pattern was refreshingly absent.
The owner of The Red House could not use all the young
human material \Vhich she found in these various lvays,
either in her own or Carlotta's establishment. The idea
came to her of speculative possibilities in traffic with the
wares. She went about the new business with her usual
astute sagacity, and, as in everything else to which she laid
her capable hand, she prospered.
She developed a trade that reached into all the great
cities of Europe, and that soon came to be her chief source
of income. It enabled her to turn back much of the in-
come from The Red House into her maintenance budget
and run the place in the expensive style which was her
aim, and which cost much money. She was proud of her
increasing clientele of aristocrats, foreigners, globe-trot-
ters, writers and painters of repute, who considered the
Salon quite unique among its kind. Plans were born in
Madame Goldscheider·s busy brain which these men liked
to talk over with her. They found her intelligent beyond
the average. The house could be enlarged, a few intimate
clubrooms for cards or billiards added, and perhaps one of
 J
THE RED HOUSE
the high-class modem cabarets . . . delightful dreams
that danced through her mind, although the crowded
actuality of her days left no time for realization.
But her girls were content even without these planned
changes. There were no quarrels, no complaints, money
was plentiful and life enjoyable. As long as they were
young and happy, healthy, alluring, the Madam sur..
rounded them with every comfort, treated them as human
beings. She was too clever to let these fate-defeated crea..
tures feel her power over them. But under it all, she
leagued herself with the gigantic social evil hovering black-
winged over life's bottommost hell, and triumphed in its
cruelty.
§5
MrLADA, the little slavey, was growing tall and straight
Her lithe graceful young figure was distorted by the cast-
off garments of the girls, made over carelessly by Moosman.
Her heavy brown braids, which had nothing of the cop-
pery hue of Katrine"-s rebellious locks, were gathered
staidly, clumsily, around her girlish head. But her eyes
were noticeable; great gray eyes, wide, sparkling with in-
telligence, with an astoundingly mature consciousness of
things and people around her . . . eyes that were like
gray fog cut through by the rays of a conquering sun. Up
and down stairs she ran, busy always, cleaning, setting to
rights, the misused vehicle for all petty intrigues, the
patient recipient of complaints and whispered vulgarities.
Like a little gray moth she flitted among the gay butter·
flies, a little gray moth whom no one really noticed, for
whom no one felt responsibility.
Quietly, skillfully, she served refreshments in the Salon;1
she dressed the girls' hair, arranged their gowns, kept
track of silver and fine china, knew where any

.
 THE RED HOUSE 79
article was at any particular minute . . . and could make
a most delightful sandwich that was a novelty.
It all seemed quite natural. That was what Milada was
there for, wasn't it? One person alone watched the girl and
her growing dependability . . . the Madam. She seldom
bad even a greeting for Milada, never a word of apprecia-
tion. But she saw the girl . . . did not let her fade into a
mere tint in the colorful show of things. This circumstance
hovered as a tool of destiny over Milada's future.
When she tidied the rooms, Milada would listen, aston-
ished, to the girls' talk. "I hate to think of what'll come to
roe some day . . . sure to go from bad to worse . . ."
"Yes . . . one way or another . . . there's no hope .. .
might as well get all the fun there is to be had out of it,
while it lasts."
Milada wondered. Why should they talk thus? They,
who had the great good fortune to belong in the Gold-
scheider house. She liked better to recall the words with
which she had so often heard the Madam greet a new-
comer. "No one need leave my house without money or
without hope. Save, be wise and thrifty. Show some intelli-
gence and you'll make your way upward." These words
were the first law of life that fought to clarity through the
nihilism of her young soul.
It gave her more. "To be in The Red House is a badge
of standing. She who goes from The Red House with
money in her pocket finds the whole world open to her."

The soul needs faith, needs something in which it can

believe, if it would grow wings to lift it up\vard. Pride in
The Red House, its repute, its standing, gave to Milada's
soul the strength, the steadiness, most of us draw from
secure home surroundings.
Valiant, indeed, must this soul be, and richly endowed,
to draw strength and warmth from so meager a sustenance.
So THE RED HOUSE ' I

Milada was proudly convinced that The Red House, in

which she had been born and had always lived, stood at
its highest point of development. Nowhere, in none of the
nearby houses, in more distant establishmentli of which
visitors spoke, were the girls so charming, no,vhere else was
there so excellent a service. Guests, agents, had often said
so. "It's worth while coming here," said a gentleman once,
"just to meet the Madam."
The name Goldscheider stood high in the business. Cus-
tomers, agents from out-of-town, bought girls out and took
them away. AI}.ything Madame Goldscheider has had in
her hands has style, they said. "Style and good luck,"
sighed Olympia. But what good did it do them? Sooner or
later, most of them ended in houses like uExcelsior" or
"La belle or Mother Zimmermann's. They
couldn't hold onto their money, they drank, gambled,
bought heaps of unnecessary clothes, which they threw
away later. Then, of course, they came deeper and deeper
in debt to the brothel keeper, with diminishing hope of
release. Yes . . . mother had done that. She drank, and
ate sweets and couldn't keep her money. But Milada had
no wish to go under in misery . . . she did not intend to
go under at all. She would make something of herself,
something worth while that all in The Red House, even
Madame Goldscheider, should be proud of her. Those who
did take care of themselves made their fortune; she had
seen enough to be sure of that. Young Anka Balling for
instance, who went away with Count Laurin. He had sent
her to a ballet school and now she danced in the Grand
Opera, in a gleaming silver gown. Even the ne,vspapers
wrote about her. That was the way to do it. Of course
. . . Anka was beautiful, and she, Milada, was not. ...
Day and night the little gray house slavey cherished her
dreams of the future, although every moment was filled
with work. She loved work. Her solitary thoughts spun
 THE RED HOUSE 81
themselves from one task to the next; idle, she would not
have been happy. Activity was her element. To plunge
into a mess of disorder, sleeves rolled up, and put each and
everything into its proper place meant happiness to
Milada. She could not understand the girls who lay in bed,
wide awake, hour after hour. "Of course, they work at
night," she said to herself, "while I am fast asleep. When
I'm up there in the Salon, it'll be the same with me."
She knew that would come true; Madame Goldscheider
had promised her, on her mother's death, that she should
be taken up among the younger girls. And what the
Madam promised, she held. But this girl's dreams, her
gropings towards an unknown future, were not the winged
wishes of happier youth. They were anchored fast to an
austere, oddly grave actuality, and her imagination
wreathed itself, in timid probity, about the facts that came
to her in the life around her. Out of a wealth of experience
of wretched failures, of the dying and the dead, of weary
bodies and broken souls, this child drew strength and built
herself stairs to climb upward. She did not dream that the
contempt of the world rested in a threatening avalanche
above her young ego, ready to crush it at the first upward
beat of the wings. Katrine's daughter grew from a child to
a slim straight young girl quite unaware of this danger.
She saved every penny that came to her, caressed the few
silver pieces that shone in the mass of copper. No .. . she
would not go under . . . not she. Milada loved her
money, it was to be her comfort and helper. This sober-
minded child of the streets did not lightly scale obstacles,
even in her dreams. She met them face to face, striving to
understand and conquer. The effort set her lips tight, thin
and thoughtful; the virile beam of her eyes was veiled by
caution that scents danger from afar and arms to meet
it. . . .
.. Mrs. Poliska," said Milada one quiet Sunday afternoon
 THE RED HOUSE
as they sat together in the tidy kitchen. "What'll you do
when you go away from here?"
The janitress started up. "Go away? . . . Have you
heard anything?"
"Not a word," soothed Milada. "But you don't want to
stay here forever, do you?"
"God forbid! My old man hopes he'll get caretaker at
the railway station where he's at the switches now. Yes
. . . I been out enough in strange houses," she sighed,
longingly.
"And then?" The old woman looked her question.
"When you both don't want to work any more . . . when
you can't work any more?"
"We'll go on the Funds," Poliska answered. "Not the
poorhouse, we got money to pay for our place. Maybe, if
you're a good girl, you can come and see me in the
garden.''
Milada looked at the floor. "Garden?.. she repeated un..
certainly. "You're sure there'll be a garden?"
"Yes, indeed. My old man's aunt, she's in a place where
there's a mighty nice garden. She's got a whole window in
her corner. 'Course you have to have money to pay for
that. She's the room-mother and has a fine time. I'll be a
room-mother too." The workworn old hands folded con-
tentedly in her lap. She faced the future without fear.
"Mrs. Poliska . . . can any one get in there?"
"You got to have money to pay in, and you got to be-
long in the county. Then you got to be decent. That sort
up there," with an upward jerk of the thumb, "they go to
the poorhouse." She fell silent and Milada did not speak
again. Suddenly she saw her way out of the narrow street.
Her thoughts wandered through a garden, a spaciow
garden with chestnut trees and benches, like the big garden
of the Soldiers' Hospital, behind the wall at the end of
Red House Lane. . . . When she came to that garden ,he
 THE RED HOUSE 8g
would be old, and tired, and want nothing more, noth-
ing but a window lvith white curtains that looked out on
the garden and behind it a narrow white bed. The child
pondered, turning the thought over and over in her mind.
Could she ever attain it? One had to belong in the county
... that must be all right for her. And money .
she sighed deeply. You had to have money . . . it was the
beginning and the end of anything worth hoping for. She'd
work for money and save it, as long as she was young and
bad a chance.
But "decent" . . . was she decent? And what did that
mean anyway? She found no answer in her experience, and
gave it up.
That evening, before she went to bed, she threw her
arms around Poliska's shoulder and flashed the brilliance
of her great eyes at the woman's round face. "Poliska . . .
shall we go see your aunt some day? I'd like to know what
it's like . . . in the garden." She did not wait for an an-
swer. Eyes radiant, cheek and forehead flushed, she ran
off. uwen . . . look at that kid now," murmured the wo-
man. But she smiled, flattered, and dozed in pleasant
thoughts.
§6
TEN beautiful girls enlivened The Red House. They
prospered under the Madam's firm hand, kept enough
money; and cab rides, theater or circus tickets were given
them free. Accounts were rigidly but justly kept and terms
were fair. Yes, it was different from most places. Angela,
seventeen, Italian, fiery-eyed, had been with Mother Zim-
mermann across the street for two days and had run away
in despair. She told weird tales of extortion. Just as bad
as living alone.
"Yes," sighed another. "It's right enough in the city
but it's so hard to get a room and once you're in, you got
 THE RED HOIJ5h
to pay . . . pay . . . pay. The landlady, the police inspec.
tor, the patrolmen . . . and the first day you can't out you
go. "
Lulu Wollner, slender, black-haired, with wistful Ma..
donna eyes, told of moving ten times in one month, be-
cause of a Protestant pastor who hounded her from one
house to another, denouncing her to the police, "because
his little girls had to go through the streets each evening
on their way from school."
"Ifs nicest in a Cafe or Bar. My friend Poldi, in Berlin,
has a fine time. She's got a steady who's put thirty thou-
sand marks in the bank for the child."
Angela threw up her hands in protest. "I been through
that too. Bar? Police got their cla\vs in you there, too."
All agreed. The police sat like Satan on their backs,
riding them hard. If a man didn't pay and cut up rough
besides, then the girl got pulled in; and when she de.
manded her rights the best she got was to be shoved in the
door of the house and the landlady forbidden to let her on
the street again. If you quarreled with the landlady, she
was always right. She knew the ropes . . . she'd fixed the
patrolmen on the beat . . . paid them with the money
her lodgers earned. Yes, that was the way it went. Going
alone wasn't a bed of roses. You were dragged to the
police station every few days, to "report," or whatnot ...
and sometimes you had to show any presents the men had
given you, rings, bracelets or gowns. And they took it
away from you, then the men came and swore at you for
saying a word about it. No matter what you did, you got it
in the neck. Yes . . . if you had the great good luck to
find a nice generous chap who didn't ask questions but
just took you up to his room and kept you there. Lulu,
eyes sparkling, told of a young officer 'vith whotn she had
lived the year before in Briick. "He found me a place in
a little house out in the fields where I could sit and watch
 THE RED HOUSE
for him every evening. Oh . . . wasn't it sweetl He was
the dearest boy."
Again Angela's arm flew up. "Officer? Not for me. I
don't want the military . . . not for all the money in the
world . . ." Angela came from Trieste, and had run away
from home with a wine agent before she was fifteen. De-
serted in the big city, she had tried to earn bed and board
as nurse, as model, and finally as waitress in night cafes.
She had been popular with the officers who frequented the
place and had had all she wanted of them. Sucher found
her in a little dive, singing indecent songs in a tiny childish
voice. He arrested her on some flimsy pretext, then freed
her and brought her to Carlotta. Angela had little wit and
not as much temperament as one might expect from her
appearance. But she was very pretty and had an odd little
droop of the eyelid that allured and invited; and in spite
of all her experience, she had preserved a gentle womanly
shrinking from advances she did not like. She had one
little outbreak of virtue which, however, did not appeal
to Carlotta. Neither money, nor flogging could persuade
her to have anything to do with army men.
Then she had a stroke of "luck.'' A young business man
with money took her away, on a two weeks trip to Berlin.
On their return, as she refused, with tears and entreaties,
to go back to Carlotta, he brought her to The Red House.
She was happy here, but she clung, shuddering, to her one
principle. "No officers . . . never . . . no. . . ."

§7
MoNEY is like liquor in their hands," remarked Mrs.
Goldscheider to Horner. "The girls are never so hard to
manage as when they have money. It gives them a sense of
power, and intoxicates."
"You need not worry. You never let them keep it long."
86 THE RED HOUSE
"My intention, friend. Of course I don't want to make
whipped curs out of them; with dog subserviency go
sharp dog-fangs sometimes. But these young gentlemen
who bring their theories of 'redemption,' 'soul-saving' in
here, make a heap of trouble."
"Your speculative humanitarianism delights me, Elise.
You're about the only human being I know with a feeling
brain."
"Homer, if I could give my life, the rest of it, to this
business, I'd make something worth while out of it. But
as it is . . . after me the deluge."
Faunish laughter curled his lips. "And may I ask what
you intend to do with the rest of your young life, when
you are tired of all this?" Anxiety mingled with the mock-
ery. She saw it and was amused.
"Since you can no longer drink, Horner, all the devils in
your brain slip out on your tongue. You were much more
agreeable drunk."
"I know . . . I know . . . you're still a sentimental
Jew·ess with a lot of dreams of singing nightingales, virtue
triumphant, vice vanished . . . all sorts of gufE you have
no use for in everyday life."
"Quite so. I manage to keep my own ego separate from
my business."
"I might have known it . . . no use trying to inject the
soul of a Greek into a mind poisoned by Fichte and
Spinoza. Judea conquers . . . I should have left you
where you belonged, in your old-clothes shop. . . ."
Elise Goldscheider turned her attention to some docu-
ments, rang for Olympia, gave orders, examined samples
of silk for negligees, marked models in the fashion sheet,
then turned back to the brooding Horner.
"Yes, Horner ... at last I see you were right ... when
you called me egoist. I never believed it, felt you did me
an injustice. Hasn't my whole life been a sacrifice to
 THE RED HOUSE
others? Father's house . . . with the useless loafers for
lodgers . . . Mother's illness . . . the children to care for
. . . then David . . . and his hard old mother . , . the
shop . . . David's illness . . . David was sweet and good,
Horner, but he died hard . . . Oh yes . . . I felt myself
so good, so unselfish . . . but you saw· deeper. I am an
egoist 6f my own feeling. I cared for them all, worked for
them . . . tended them to the moment of death, did my
whole duty . . . but now I know there was not one spark
of real interest, not one single heart-throb for any of them.
Even my own mother . . . they were all strangers to me.
I served them, but my heart feels, desires, throbs only for
myself . . . and more even than for myself, for my child,
my Alma Lucy . . . she's all I live for . . . for her and
coming years with her. Everything the coming years may
bring, belongs to her. No, no grimaces, Horner. I love my-
self and my brood, that's all."

§8
OUT of a long pilgrimage of sacrifice to others, this strong
self-reliant woman had had but one love, one hope for the
future: her child. She refused to give the girl a Jewish
name, and when death had freed her from all family aile·
giance she had her child baptized in the Protestant church.
Then deep as it cut to part from her six-year-old daughter
she sent the child to a high class Dresden school. The
luxury in English style almost went beyond her means.
But she worked, saved, looked into the future with astute
calculating eyes . . . anything to keep Alma Lucy free
from the atmosphere of the second-hand clothes shop . . .
free from the taint of the Ghetto.
No one knew her in Dresden, or knew the source of her
income. She was just "Alma Lucy's little mother." Twice a
year she spent several days there, and returned enraptured
88 THE RED HOUSE '
at the development of the slender, graceful girl whose
great eyes mirrored all her romantic father's racial tra..
clition, but still hinted at the mother's larger sense of
actuality. Some day, Elise would sell The Red House
. . . it was worth a fortune now. Then a dainty apan- •
ment in Dresden, her girl . . . music, books, pictures
. . . life. . . .
Horner, the shipwrecked school-teacher, dismissed from
all official standing because of vicious practices, yet a man
of brain and intelligence beyond the average, had drifted
her way when she began to feel the need of education. She
became an economic anchor to windward for his drifting
existence. And he developed her intelligence with the
fanatic interest of the born teacher. He watched her now.
in a satanic amusement mingled with fear of losing her,
sensing the vision that lay cool and pure in her soul amid
the merriment of the Salon. He knew he could not even
find the bridge she was building, the bridge she alone
could cross from this world to that other in which her
child lived.

•
1 ocro oocnns oo-o ooooooom oooon ooooo-o oo-o oolS ooooll cr

BOOK THREE-THE
PHILOSOPHER

.tJP o o_o U o o o o o o OJUUlO o o o o o_o o o o o QJlO o QJlO o o o o o CLO o CLO 0.

§1
MILADA knocked at the door of Miss Dubhe's room.
The girl sat at the dressing table, rubbing rouge off her
cheeks. "Oh, it's you, Milada? Look, that red mess is all
tt
gone.
"You might as well put on fresh/' replied Milada,
matter-of-fact.
Martha Dubhe laughed merrily. "Think so? Maybe I'll
try simple nature this time . . . pale and interesting. The
Spaniards call it morbidezza." She studied the delicate oval
of her face framed in ash-blond hair. "Eyes dulled in
tears," she murmured. Then threw her arms around Mil-
ada. "Milada, I'll do it . . . I'll do it . . ." The door
slammed behind her outward rush.
Milada looked about, shaking her head. Such disorder!
The lovely pale yellow gauze gown that had taken Moos-
man several days to make lay sprawling on the floor, a
slipper caught by the high heel in a flounce. Milada
frowned, picked up the gown carefully, and laid it on the
divan . . . first clearing away the jumble of lingerie and
odd articles that encumbered it. And everywhere . . .
cigarette stubs, ashes, wine bottles and glasses! In the
room! If the Madam knew that! Yes, Martha Dubhe
89

•
go THE RED HOUSE
eccentric, hard to manage. But there was a limit. Milada
rolled up her sleeves and plunged in.
It seemed but a few minutes before the door lVas torn
open and Martha dashed in, ghastly pale, face distorted,
eyes wide, trembling in every fiber. She s·wept past Milada,
paced the room angrily, muttering: "What can I do? It's
all up . . . this is the finish. God . . . God . . . God
. . . why won't she let me go? I'll go mad here . . . she
won't believe me when I say that everything . . . every.
thing in this place is driving me insane!"
"Oh, Miss Martha, . . . when you're so comfortable
here . . . "The fifteen-year-old girl, broom in hand, tried
to soothe the excited woman. She knew these outbreaks
and knew how quickly they faded. But this one seemed
.
more ser1ous.
Martha Dubhe stared at her, unseeing. Then she gasped
deep, caught Milada's arm. "You know . . . you know
how she inveigled me into this place . . . tricked me ...
she and her helpers. Now she says I came voluntarily. Godl
. . . she calls that . . . voluntary. . . ."
"Don't take it so to heart, Miss Martha. It'll pass over.
And this is a good place. The others all say. . . ."
"The others? Yes . . . that's just it . . . the othen
belong here, I don't. I come from a different lvorld. I want
to go back there . . ." She screamed out, sobbed, caught
at her throat, and flung a hundred gulden note to the floor.
"She says I owe four hundred gulden. What for? Slave-
driver! Panderer in souls! I owe her four hundred gulden
and she saved me, she says. What from? I'll pay . . . here's
the first installn1ent. He promised me . . ." the restless
pacing began again. "But it's too late now . . . too
1a t e. . . ."
Milada smiled. "No . . . part payments or
won't get you very far with the Madam."
"If she lets me go, I can pay. He gave me that last ...... .........
 THE RED HOUSE 91
. . . the Englishman. He believed me. We spoke English
. . . we arranged to meet at half past eleven this morning,
at the Consulate . . . but it's too late . . . she won't let
me go . . . she'll kill me. . . ."
From the room next door came an energetic rapping.
"They want to sleep," reminded Milada, smoothing the
valance of the bed.
"I'll get even . . . I'll ruin her as she's ruined me. I'll
write the Councillor . . . I taught three years in his house
... I was like one of the family . . . I'm a decent girl of
good family . . . I can't endure it here . . . I . . ." she
caught at Milada's arm once more.
"But Miss Martha, this is the best, the most decent
borde! in the whole city." Milada spoke lvith conviction.
Martha Dubhe stared at her a moment, then exploded in
hysterical laughter.
"Excellent . . . delicious . . . you're perfectly de-
licious! I never heard anything quite like that! Yes, I know
)OU mean well, you and the others . . . but you belong
here. I come from another world . . . I've had a good
education, I've taught in the best houses . . . the kind
ladies, the dear children . . . all lost . . . lost . . ." She
dropped into a chair and wept angrily.
"Now see here, Miss Martha," Milada spoke back over
her shoulder as she busily dusted the furniture. "That
money there and all this shouting won't get you anywhere
with the Madam. But if you really want to get out, why
don't you save your money? The nicest foreign gentlemen
come here for you . . . they're generous. Save up that
four hundred. Even if you have just three hundred and
prettily, Madam Goldscheider will let you go . . .
•'"'•an if you are so nice-looking:'
Martha Dubhe wheeled suddenly. In the mirror she had
-"'"·&& the door move, caught a watchful face. Mrs. Gold..

,_.... ....came in, leaned against the door, and looked on.
.....
92 THE RED HOUSE
Milada, unaware, spoke on, "Only don't make her angry.
It's much better to keep calm and you can get along with
her all right.''
"Take this rag," screamed Dubhe, Hinging the
money at Mrs. Goldscheider's feet. "I've still got some con.
nections . . . I'll find some way out." She stood hands on
hips, sneering at the other woman.
Milada's open mouth snapped shut, in alarm. Mrs.
Goldscheider nodded to her. "Run on down, child, and
ask Moosman for that green silk gown." Then she stooped
for the money. "This is for you. I' 11 take ca're of it for
you."
She turned to Martha, "And you, my dear, get ready for
the street. You'll leave here in two hours. I don't want any
such scenes in my house. It's rather too bad that you can't
behave more decently, with your education and your
background. You know that I have taken care of your
child . . . paid your worst debts . . . sent you to the
doctor . . . and now you're making all this fuss. No, my
dear . . . wash your face, fix your hair. I'll make you a
present of the green silk gown. Fix yourself pretty. The
agent will be here in two hours."
The girl stared at her, eyes wide, terrified. "Go away?
Go away?"
"What else can I do? I would like to have kept you. But
I can't have The Red House made a stage for your out-
bursts."
She went out. After a frozen moment, Martha dashed in
pursuit, but was held up in the corridor by the old seam-
stress Mrs. Moosman, who carried a gown over her arm
and soothed with gentle words, pushing the excited girl
back into the room. Milada joined them.
"There now, look at this," exclaimed the dressmaker.
••Now we'll make our lovely Martha lovelier than ever.
 TH.E RED HOUSE 93
And the noble gentlemen will open their eyes, they sure
Wl"11 •,
Milada helped and they drew the green silk, sparkling
with palettes, over Martha's head. "My eye," exclaimed
Moosman, hopping in delight. "Don't it fit fine? But there
ain't another such back or pair of shoulders in the house
. . . and such arms.''
Martha Dubhe's eyes were still wide with terror. "But
I'm to go away . . . she won't let me stay."
"Oh, that's bosh. Think she'll let the prettiest of them
all go away? You just go down and show her how you look
in this, and she'll keep you. My eye . . . you look sweet."
Milada arranged the girl's hair, wiped her reddened
eyes, touched the pale cheeks gently with rouge. "If she'll
only let me stay," moaned Martha Dubhe, looking at her-
self in the mirror. Then she turned and ran out.
"That's a crazy-head," muttered the old dressmaker.
Then she took out her tape and measured Milada's skirt
length.
"Why . . . what . . . ?" Milada, embarrassed, stepped
back a pace. The woman jerked her forward. "Stand still
till I measure you. Think they'll have you in the Salon in
them rags?"
"In the Sa:---"
"Sure . . . where else?" the dressmaker jotted down the
figures in her book and rolled up her tape.
Milada, stunned, scarcely noticed Martha's vociferous
return, her cries of "She'll keep me . . . she'll keep me
. . . I told her I wanted to stay. . . ."
"There, you see . . ." agreed Moosman.
Milada, one hand still clamped around the broom-
handle, stared out of the window. She . . . in the Salon?
Wear a pretty gown . . . sing, dance, wait on the gentle-
men? Perhaps she'd get a lovely green silk dress like
Martha's •.. and a bit of rouge on her cheeks. Yes . . .
94 THE RED HOUSE
then she might do. She glanced at the mirror, studied her
reflection. No . . . she wasn't pretty . . . that is, not like
Gisi, or the Jewess Laura, or Martha Dubhe here. When
Martha laughed, everyone else laughed with her, and
dimples came in her chin, her cheeks. No . . . not she,
not Milada. She was so serious . . . her face was dark, her
mouth wide with thin lips, and her eyes . . . she couldn•t
make them laugh. She looked at herself again and turned
away with a sigh. She wouldn't be much of a credit to the
Madam. Well . . . if it didn't tum out well, she could
always go back to work.
Suddenly she flushed hotly, trembled, then shook her-
self, caught up the broom and brushed the floor vigorously.
Martha Dubhe sat at the dressing-table, touching up
cheeks and eyebrows. "Four hundred gulden . . . with
this green dress fifty more. I can earn that easy. Why not,
with my looks and my education? And I can weep real
tears too, if I want to. Men know a good thing when they
see it. They kno\v I'm different, that I'm not the sort that
belongs here." She loosened her hair, drelv the blond tor-
rent over her face. "The captive princess in the dwarf-
cave. How does it look best, Milada? This way? Or this?
I'm going out for a walk. Run down, Milada, ask Oly if I
may."
Martha dressed hastily, singing with a thin shrill voice,
and false intonation:
u/vly heart's in the Highlands
My heart is not here."

§2
THE day passed much as usual for Milada. She waited on
the guests in the drawing-room until midnight. Then one
 THE RED HOUSE 95
of the chambermaids took her place, and she could go
down into the kitchen for a final cup of coffee before re-
tiring. Poliska was there, the coffee smelled good. Milada
sat down, closed her eyes and let the events of the day pass
in review. The Madam was keeping that hundred gulden
for her . . . for Milada . . . all that moneyt
And then, she was to have a new gown. How did it all
bang together? What had happened suddenly to make
things so different? But Milada wasted little time in specu-
lation. She had learned that life brings much we do not
understand, and that, sooner or later., it would become
clear. Music sounded in the drawing-room above, the
doorbell rang now and then. Milada washed a tray of
glasses and stood them up, ready for use.
Suddenly she turned. "Poliska, tell me . . . what's a
decent girl?" The janitress paused, with upraised meas-
uring-spoon. "Girl . . . what ideas you got."
"But I want to know," said Milada slowly. "Have we
any here? Or doesn't any 'decent girl' . . . ever come to
a borde!?"
"Oh, leave me in peace with your silly notions."
Milada laid both hands on the woman's shoulders. The
deep question in her eyes shook even Poliska's robust soul.
The janitress spoke hastily, her voice quivering with pity..
..Why . . . why . . . it's a . . .. decent girl . . . when
she only just goes with her man on Sundays. Now get off
to bed."
She turned away, clattering among the pots and pans,
murmuring under her breath, "She oughter be in a con-
vent . . . the poor kid.,
Milada breathed deep. "That's . . . just . . • what
. . I . . . thought." Poliska pushed the girl from the
kitchen, and continued her muttered rebellion against the
way of the Lord here on earth.
g6 THE RED HOUSE

§3
SEVERAL days later Mrs. Goldscheider came out of her
office and found Milada on her knees, scrubbing the cor..
ridor floor. Carefully the Madam studied the thin brown
face turned up to greet her.
"You shouldn't do work like that. Where is the scrub.
woman?''
"She's washing today, and I haven't anything to do."
The Madam paused, then went on, "You're growing
like your mother. But I think you're more sensible. How
old are you?"
"Sixteen," murmured Milada.
"Just Alma Lucy's age," shot through Mrs. Gold..
scheider's brain, and a warm gleam lit her cold gray eyes.
"Poliskal" she called. "I don't want this girl to do any
more rough work. Look at her hands . . . it's a shame.
Where does she sleep?"
"In the little attic room, Madame . . . the rat room..,
The woman swallowed the last words.
"Haven't we a room free? The narrow one . . . next to
Seraphine?"
"But we need that . . . for the evening.''
"Exactly . . . for the evening." The Madam's lips shut
again. Her eyes searched Milada's face. Yes . . . the child
had Katrine's fearless glance. Elise Goldscheider could rec-
ognize good, useful material. She nodded to the girl, and
passed on.
Milada leaned against the stair-rail, giddy. Visions
danced before her inner eye . . . a real room, wardrobes
that locked, candles, all she wanted, books, newspapen
. . . strange men . . . ahvays new ones . . . so much
leisure . . . no hard work . . . gold pieces . . . and
back of it all something Unuttered . . . something
mighty, that loomed.
 THE RED HOUSE 97
Another world, a world that had always been around
her and yet she never of it. She sighed deeply, gazed
around, confused. Her eyes came to focus on a square of
dusty floor, gray by contrast with the shining boards she
bad just now scrubbed. Automatically her trembling hand
plunged the mop into the pail, twisted it out, and laid it
to the floor. The janitress, looking on, shook her head.
''They' 11 never make a trull out o' her, never," sensed the
woman's primitive soul.
The great primal law of health, the quick turning to the
nearest, simplest duty in moments of soul-upheaval . . .
what God had taught it to this child?

§4
WHEN Milada awoke in the new room, she found laid
out, ready to her hand, a bright red skirt with white red-
embroidered blouse, shoes, stockings, underwear. Mrs.
Moosman was there and helped her dress. In vociferous
admiration she braided the heavy brown hair in soft plaits
and twisted them about the small well-shaped head.
uThere now . . . if that don't dra'v the young sparrows
to the pea-vines! They'll make eyes when they see you."
Stifling her heart-beats, Milada went down to the office.
Mrs. Goldscheider looked up, casually. "Wait," was all she
said.
Milada waited, and studied herself furtively in the mir-
ror the while. The well-fitting garments lengthened her
slender figure . . . she had not realized that she was so
tall. Soft natural waves of hair lay about the temples,
framing an austere face with calm gray eyes, in which no
gleam of young longing shimmered. But in them was a
cautious groping, as of one who moves in paths of danger
where each step must be measured, for dear life's sake.
Ten minutes she waited. She studied the figure of the
g8 THE RED HOUSE
woman bent over the desk . . . silver threads in the red
hair . . . an oddly sensitive line in the mouth-comers.
Suddenly the Madam turned.
"Come here," she said to the girl, looking at her keenly.
"I'll take you up to the Salon. You're Katrine's daughter
and Katrine was useful here. Your outfit . . . will be a
gift from me. That is, I mean I will wipe out your debt if
I . . . if I ever give up this place. You are in debt only to
me .. . understand? To no one else."
"Yes, Madame.''
"You have 1;vorked here faithfully for years . . . your
trousseau is your reward. The main point is that when I
go, you do not owe any one a cent . . . and you are free
to go anywhere you will. And now sign this." Mrs. Gold-
scheider pushed a sheet of paper towards the girl.
Milada took it up and read it carefully. Dumbfounded,
silent, Mrs. Goldscheider watched. Then the girl nodded
and took the pen in stiff work-hardened fingers. Slowly,
but without hesitation, she signed her name. The Madam
folded the paper and spoke again.
"Keep yourself in hand and life will treat you well. The
fact that you have grown up here and know this life gives
you an advantage over the others who come from outside.
You have seen enough to judge. You know that it is not
necessary to drop into the gutter, even in this life. When
you leave here . . . and have money . . . the whole
world is open to you." Then the woman paused, lips
tightening. She had said more than she intended . . . had
spoken from her own soul, surprised at herself. A vision
of quiet Dresden, her own young daughter waiting for her,
had shaken her into a sense of responsibility never felt
until now, pushing back her harsh egotism. She held out
her hand to Milada who raised it to her lips, with calm
cool eyes fixed on the older woman's face.
"Wait upstairs in your room. Sucher will come for you
 THE RED HOUSE 99
this afternoon and take you to his wine room. They will
teach you how to meet the guests. You need not give up
your tips, tell them that is my order. You'll return to us
in six weeks.
Carlotta gave Milada her own room, in which she could
receive visitors during the day. At night she was one of
four girls serving in the separate rooms, and her main duty
was to see that much champagne was demanded. She re-
ceived a tiny percentage per bottle, but the final account-
ing with Carlotta usually swallowed it up.
Her six weeks in the wine room lengthened to six
months. She was a success from the beginning. Her first
"patron" was an elderly aristocrat who made a toy of her
and when he had had enough, left her a savings bank book
with a thousand gulden to her credit. Then came an officer
of high rank, and finally a generous Berlin banker. He was
delighted with Milada, gave her anything she wanted,
flowers, clothes, well-chosen jewels, camped in her room
for most of his stay in the city, drank the most expensive
wines and generally made things pleasant for the girl.
"You're no beauty, but you're not a hussy like the rest of
them . . . that's why I like you. My old girl in Berlin
... na . . . you're resting me up from weeks with her."
He showed Milada the photo of his Berlin mistress,
plump, blond, challenging. Milada rather liked her, and
wondered, when she looked at her own brown slenderness
in her mirror. She did not like herself with painted cheeks,
robbed off the rouge whenever she could.
But she knew she could never be as light-heartedly gay
as were the other girls here. They would pretend it was
all put on, but she remembered Fritzi's merry witticisms,
the gleam in Paula s eyes when good-looking young officers
came in . . . that wasn't all faked.
Here, in Carlotta'.s establishment, perception came to
Milada; she saw, observed, comprehended and her soul
100 '!'HE RED HOUSE
drew on its first coat of steel. In one full deep glimpse she
visioned the bounds of social differences in her own
sphere; her alert sense caught and held insight into degrees
of misery, finer shadings of endurance, submission. She
tested her own worth by the attitude of a world the hot
breath of which now touched her for the first time,
touched her greedily as the flame devours the twigs given
it for nourishment.
Gropingly, timidly, her speculative glance cut down
into the lumpish mass of human material around her . . .
threw light and shadow into it. With somnambulant secur.
ity she wandered up and down the ladder of her profes-
sion. She stood in the false glare of a light that was not of
the sun, she cowered in the depths of the abyss, listening
to the most secret whispers of life. . . . Intellectual worth
is born only of true comprehension of differences. Milada
won it here, in Carlotta's rooms.
She realized the deep distinction between herself, the
upper waitress in shining black silk, and the barmaids
whose punishment for the slightest rebellion was a quick
blow, and who begged a chance bite or drink from
friendly guests. And she felt the still wider gulf which sep-
arated her and her kind from the young ladies who came
to the cafe evening after evening, to private rooms, in
company with liberal gentlemen who ordered of the best.
These girls laughed and joked with all the men but they
could love none other than him to whom they belonged.
They all had "steady affairs," and very seldom changed
lovers. Carlotta's place was a Love Exchange where amor-
ous affairs of the gay world were registered, tested and
launched.
When girls of this sort, with their lovers, occupied the
private rooms, the waitresses were not allowed to serve at
their tables. Not even Milada. And they must not flirt w·ith
 THE RED HOUSE 101

the gentlemen, ask for cigarettes or nip at the wine glass.

Carlotta was patron saint for these left-hand marriages.
"They're not any better lookin' than we are," com-
JDented Paula enviously. "And no better neither, they're
just in luck, big luck."
Milada was not satisfied with such an explanation.
There must be some deeper inequality between her sort
and these women. But she did not yet feel that she could
describe it, put it into words. She did not brood over it,
her mobile brain grasped and registered facts, nothing
else. But she saw the contempt with which other girls were
treated, girls in shabby finery who came in from the street,
timid yet bold, looking for an unoccupied table. Carlotta
turned them out, harshly, tolerated them only when they
came with a man. "Flannel petticoats," the trade jargon
called them, even though one or the other would lift her
skirt to reveal the silk beneath. Poor souls, there was no
caprice, no falsity in them. They were frankly hungry, sub-
missive, servile towards any one who gave them a good
word or a hi te to eat.
Then there were the "black ladies." When any of them
came in the room grew still. They came in quiet dark
gowns, sometimes veiled, by twos and threes or with men
who looked very serious and ordered wine by the glass.
Carlotta said they were "respectable women," and that she
had no use for that sort of guest. She was polite to them,
but made faces later in the pantry. "They'd oughter stay
home and wash diapers, not come here and stare around
as if it was a theater show."
Milada found these women most interesting. They sat
close together, whispered, and were so serious, almost sad.
They sipped their wine slowly, and never seemed to laugh.
Carlotta would sit down at their table sometimes and talk
about her cares and worries and rising prices; and once
in a while one of the gentlemen would call a girl over and
102 THE RED HOUSE
offer her a glass of wine. But the girls sat with downcast
eyes, dumb; even Paula.
" 'When do you ever get to sleep?' " she aped the ques-
tions asked her. '''Do you ever get out to walk? Are· your
parents living?' . . . what a mouthful of bosh . . . we
don't want them here."
Once, while Milada was waiting on a party of this kind
she saw one woman point to her and whisper to another.
"Oh, dear Lord . . . so young. Poor little thing."
"Now, why?" thought Milada. "It's my one piece of luck
that I'm young and new."
One of the gentlemen called her to the table later,
pinched her cheek, told her he was glad to see she was not
rouged like the others. Paula, just back of her, murmured
an impudent word and giggled. Milada heard her name
called and hurried away. "She seems rather stupid," said
one of the ladies, with a sigh. Paula retailed the remark
later, with malicious glee.
The girls had the mid·afternoon hours free and were
allowed to go out. Usually they went to the Park, and took
coffee in the Dairy. They watched the passing motor cars,
the horseback riders and, for the first time, Milada looked
on at the whirl of fashionable city life. Dazed, she sat and
watched the laughing throng that passed, met, greeted
acquaintances, found places in groups at the tables.
Mechanically she stirred her coffee, ignoring Paula's
exclamations and jests. Her brain was one turmoil of ques.
tions for which she found no answer. Who were all these
people? How did they live? Why did they laugh so much?
Those women did not seem to have to rouge, to go half
naked, beckon to the men and coquette with them. They
sat calmly there, and the men came up, cautiously, with
deep bowings. "The men look as if they were walking on
tiptoe," she said to Paula, in astonishment.
Once her attention was caught by two very slender
 'l'HE RED HOUSE
blond women, apparently sisters, who glided daintily from
their auto, in filmy white gowns with discreet jewels, while
a swarm of riders gathered and did homage. "Who are
they?" asked Milada, timidly . . . staring after them as
they sought a table.
"That's the sort of woman who has nothing to do but
deceive her husband . . . so she can have lace gowns and
diamonds." Paula's answer held casual contempt.
"Aren't you the clever piece," sneered Fritzi, pretty
Fritzi, the star of the wine room. She was an exquisitely
lovely blond with delicate features. In these afternoon
walks she had eyes only for the children, would stop to
speak to them, touch their little hands, try to get them to
linger at her side.
At home, in her mother's house, Fritzi had a little girl of
six, the object of her idolatrous affection. Every child she
saw brought a vision of her "Susie-Mousie." Every pretty
little garment brought murmurs, "How sweet . . . I must
make that for Susie . . . in pale blue. . . ."
About this time occurred an incident which rent with
lightning flash the dimness of Milada's observations,
doubts, questing. The three of them came to the Dairy one
afternoon, finding the place crowded, no table vacant.
They sat down beside an elderly couple who nodded
friendly permission. The lady had a kindly yellowed face;
under her little black lace hat she smiled graciously at the
pretty girls. Paula looked about, grumbled, "Not an
officer in sight," and began to flirt with a group of cyclists.
The elderly couple looked at one another, exchanging a
few murmured words. Milada studied their faces eagerly.
"Fritzi . . . they're talking about us," she whispered to
her comrade, who was absorbed in a comic sheet. Fritzi's
blue eyes flashed over the old faces. "Well, let them." She
was accustomed to such situations.
"What is she thinking . . . of us? Does she think we·re
104 THE RED HOUSE
street girls? She'd like to be far away." Milada brooded,
looking up now and then into the immobile old features.
A boyishly attractive lieutenant came past the table.
Paula wheeled around in her chair and exclaimed aloud
. . . to the lad's evident embarrassment, uNow there's a
boy I could like I"
The old gentleman pushed back his chair and called,
"Waiter . . . the check," while the lady rose and walked
off without a word.
Milada followed the happening with wide uneasy eyes,
that gleamed then dimmed.
"Old fools," said Paula.
"Couldn't you keep quiet?" muttered Milada angrily.
"Why raise such a fuss?"
Unexpectedly Fritzi, usually so sensible, took Paula's
part. "Shouldn't come here if they're so particular as to
who they meet," she remarked with a careless shrug.
"The old fool was mad because I wouldn't pick up with
him," shouted Paula. Smothered laughter, shrugs, glares
or leers came from neighboring tables.
Fritzi read her paper, Paula turned to watch the
promenaders. But Milada's upraised face made of itself a
target for the looks of contempt that were flung at it, open
or furtive, from all sides. For the first time in her life she
stared with full consciousness into the abyss that divided
her sphere from that other world.
Looks were flung at her, curious, cold, cruel . . . she
sat motionless, taking all the contempt as something that
was her due.
Let them look . . . it was true . . . they were prosti-
tutes. Milada flung up her head proudly. She had grown
up in the Goldscheider house . . . was going back there
. . . those men all knew what that meant. And the women
. . . it mattered so little 'vhat they thought . . . those
women with gray faces. But . . • no matter what her
 THE RED HOUSE 105

thoughts . . . her pride . . . she could get no further,

could find no escape. A heavy, unendurably heavy feeling
of utter isolation settled down on her heart. Out of these
glances, at the words guessed behind them, out of the
unequivocal gestures and the whirl of her own restless
thoughts she built up, stone by stone, a wall behind which
''those others" sat with their pride, their contempt, their
joy, their sorrow, their habits and their laws, a world
eternally cut off from her.
Later, when Milada would try to formalize her relation
to that world of "the others," this hour in the Dairy would
come back to her, with all the faces, the hard scornful eyes
that focused on her and lamed all movement.
But in this hour was born in Milada's soul the con-
sciousness of a personal law of existence, outside of all de-
termination, untouched by the will of the Ego, holding its
own eternal form.
Half a year later the Berlin banker went home and
Milada returned to The Red House.

§5
ONE rainy January evening Mrs. Goldscheider caught
Milada's hand and led her to the comer by the stove which
was sacred to Homer.
"Here, friend, here's something for you, to keep you
alive . . . something young. Katinka's daughter . . . you
remember K.atinka? You and I were some younger then,
and this girl . . . only that high.''
Horner raised his fat, unwholesomely pallid face. "Ka-
tinka? Yes . . . a nice little cat she was . . . and this
here? Young? . . . yes. Hey, girl . . . like the fare here?
Rich fare, eh? Need a dash of bitters for digestion?" He
drew her to him, holding his hands about her hips.
Milada could scarce conceal the sense of disgust aroused
106 THE RED HOUSE
by the pressure of his thick spongy fingers. ··No . . .
wait . . .'' he murmured. "You'll get good sharp bitters
from me . . . clean out your stomach from too many . . .
from too much .... sewage." And he held his glass of
lemonade to her lipr..
In spite of open mockery from the other girls, in spite
of loud slurs, she stayed with him in his corner. Something
new, something quite unforeseen, something oddly stir-
ring came to her ear, in jerked out words, broken sen-
tences of the dull monotonous voice.
Under the flaccid pressure of his hands, a sense of phys-
ical languor grew. But her soul awoke to unguessed sweet-
ness . . . to the pressure of thronging thoughts. "Let
them laugh, dance, bubble . . . you keep calm and look
on. Dost think, girl, it's their own life they,re sweating out
there? Foolish. No human being lives his life as a finished
thing. Each one of us is but a scrap of continuation of
some strange material, fighting for the security of immor-
tality. Matter is all that matters, not the moment of dis-
gusting consciousness . . . you may begin as empress and
end as harlot . . . and the harlot's dream will help the
primal matter to victory. To see our goal . . . is all that
is of value. Who ever reached his goal? Who ever reached
completion, victory over matter? Cause and effect? Goethe?
Jesus? Hm . . . immortality is all we wish, is the rhythm
of our dance . . . eyes that are once opened to life are
caught in its infinitude and the Will to Return awakens.
You were once before and you will come again. Phrynel
Why ... in face of this consciousness of eternity, should
the trifling filth of this moment of existence irk you?
. . . Dance, laugh . . . froth if you will . . . but remem-
ber this life is not what has value in you . . . Dost know
what has value? To reach the End . . . waste . . . be
profligate with matter . . . do not load it with too much
Ego."
 THE RED HOUSE 107

Mrs. Goldscheider would beckon, Olympia call her.

There were guests to be served . . . she would disappear
upstairs with one . . . but again and again, automatically,
she returned to the stove corner, struggling to grasp these
dark riddles, these words that banged like heavy stones
against a thick wall.
"From millenniums past you come, into millenniums
you shall go. For short seconds of these you live in disgust..
ing consciousness. You are the fragment of an Idea, thrown
by incalculable chance on a dung heap. Take root in this
earth-matter, draw from it sap and power, and you will
reach your goal.
"The dunghill scarab, for instance . . . he is not the
least of us. He has savoir vivre . . . delights in his golden
armor and cares little how he stinks in the noses of us
others.
"Did you ever see a dunghill beetle . . . eruditely
ScarabfEus coprophagus1" Now Horner was a teacher, lec-
turing to a class. "It's a pretty little thing, gleaming in
green and gold. But if you take it in your hand it dis-
charges a dark brown fluid and your prying nose is re-
warded for its curiosity by a most malevolent stench. See?
That's the Idea of the Dungheap . . . materialized. The
dunghill beetle says to the world, 'Dear folks, I thrive
because you have your dungheaps, your unsavory corners
... for refuse and filth. Hel Hel Were your lives pure
and Slveet, I could not live. I lvear green-gold panties.' "
Horner's hand groped under Milada's skirt. " 'Golden
shoes . . . bright things that sparkle on breast and throat.
You need your dungheaps. They would be nasty without
me. , "
Brooding, Horner gazed into his empty glass. Then he
looked up.
"Bring me powdered sugar, two half lemons without the
ieeds, and water. I'll teach you my especial mixture . •
108 THE RED HOUSE
that lvill be one more life-value for you. I think I could
like ,
Ob eht, Milada went off with the tray.
''Homer, have you pensioned me?'' cried Olympia, pass-
ing. She was no'v housekeeper, in austere black silk with
swinging key-bunch and money pocket.
"That's what Fate holds for us old folks,'' he replied
cynically. Smiting at her angry glance, he stretched his legs
comfortably. Life did make its little jokes now and then.
He'd laid one dunghill beetle on its back and could watcjt
its angry kickings . . . and the new one . . . the young
poison? That new one crept submissively around him,
reaching its mobile feelers up to the sweets he offered. Yes,
Elise was a good friend, she threw him a little bracer every
so often. The girls all listen to him . . . one because she
still hopes for money from him . . . another because she
thinks he means to pull her out of the bog. Might it be
possible? Could he really discover . . . in all this stink-
ing, crawling, find the sacred scarabeus? Then he laughed
Why bother?
Milada returned and he brewed his lemonade with
much elaborate ritual and elucidation. "You must make
that for me every day. I've made an enemy of Olympia for
your sake. No more Olympus for mine. What's your name?
Milada? Sounds rather good . . . almost real. How old?
Seventeen?"
He paused, gurgling over the lemonade. "Like to get
away from here? Yes . . . you should. This here . . . no
good for you . . . best get out."
She shook her head gravely. "No . . . I cannot. I owe
the Madam much money."
He spurted laughter and spittle. "Little monkey .• I

don't you know you're free? No one can hold you .• I

the door is open. You're nothing to her," with a wave of

 THE RED HOUSE '

his hand towards Mrs. Goldscheider, "but an un

the more. There is the door. Go . . . go . . .
The suggestive strength of his words was so
this groping soul drinking them in that involuntarily Mil-
ada rose and walked towards the door. But she felt his eyes
calling her back. When she returned to him, he stared at
with blazing curiosity, as if he saw the first
ume.
"Strange,'' he murmured, almost startled, "strange. The
others all just laughed. This one here . . . she did go.,.
•
§6
THUS was born a comradeship in the realm of the mind,
a comradeship strange, anomalous.
Horner "\Vas a shi p·nrrecked existence, an unusual brain,
broken, cast out by respectability because of a strain of
perversity. Dismissed from his school position for vicious
practices, he took up private .. tutoring. But even here he
was an outcast. Of his own wish, too. He was of those
richly endowed but rudderless souls who find est and
moral security in the enervating atmosphere of the half-
world. For here lies the border beyond lvhich society with
its moral demand cannot penetrate. Here one can lay aside
all cultural shame, prejudice and considerations. Here
man finds a refuge for lawless deeravity, for the beast
within him and its urge.
"The Capitol of Carnalia," Horner called the bordel.
Its atmosphere appeased his hatred and contempt for
humanity.
He knew the types here . . . the rise and fall of their
destinies, the upheaval, the struggle, the slow-creeping
weariness, the atrophy of spiritual emotions even to the
crushing of self-pity, the most primitive form of the Ego.
He knew the hideous disgust with which these outcasts of
J 10 THE RED HOUSE
the social order turn against themselves at the last, the
final struggle of the dying soul as it curses the rotting
body.
The moral world has all too long worked to convince
these creatures, products of its own moral laws, of their
unworthiness: as Horner phrased it. "The commendable
energy of the Good and the Pious has succeeded at last in
implanting self-contempt, self-immolation as a social duty
in these lost souls."
Yes . . . they were all doomed . . . hopelessly. ..,
How many types had he not seen here. Girls with
strong, thirsting wills; girls of active intelligence and fiery
temperament, struggling like captive flies against the
vicious gum that held them fast; and then girls who
brought even into the morass a true womanly modesty
. . . and all-the good, the bad, the strong, the weak-
all went under at the last. . . .
Here, in this Sahara of morality . . . this eternal
sterility . . . Life, the Conqueror, the ever-new, ever.
triumphant self-renewing Life which he so hated ...
here Life received its death-blow, its defeat!
"The harlot is the symbol of Nature. What we call life
is naught but the vibration of her lustful, insensate, vain
body, offering itself to anyone." This was Horner's
philosophy.
Yet, strange to see, this submerged spirit, wallowing of
free will in his bog, was yet a teacher of the richest gifts.
the highest ability. Jealous, too, of his influence on the
minds he had helped to development. It galled him now to
see that Elise Goldscheider, the little Jewish wife and
mother, second-hand clothes dealer, out of whom he had
mzBe a cultured woman, seemed slipping away from him.
The cynicism he had tried to inculcate was softening be-
neath reawakened tradition, and racial sentimentality.
Elise Goldscheider was seriously contemplating a possible
 THE RED HOUSE 111

sale of The Red House. "If I stay here too long," she said
to herself, "Alma Lucy will have no real mother . . .
only an ex-brothel-keeper." She did not speak thus to
Horner, but he sensed her attitude. And he sought =t new
prey . . . a fresh young mind in which he could plant.
on a basis of cultural development, his cynical world-
weariness, his anarchism of the soul.
Milada . . . here was his outlet . . . here new ground
for his efforts. "Take note of that girl . . . she's not the
usual sort," Elise had said to him. "She read the contract
I offered her to sign . . . read it carefully."
Homer grunted, did not answer. But he knew. This
offer of a new mind to train was Elise's declaration of in-
dependence, her last will and testament where he was con·
cerned. . . . Very well . . . he accepted it. But neither of
them realized the quality of this coin they had tossed one
to the other. It was no spurious metal play-counter . . .
it was pure, true hard-ringing gold, the finest human ma-
terial that had ever come under Homer's modeling fingers.
He was to give it the final imprint, the true value.
Milada became to this man a pupil on whom he could
spend his last and finest powers, the very ground-roots of
his ability.
Since conscious thought awoke, the girl had been the
prey of constantly recurring ideals, conceptions, for which
the world of her actualities held no mirror, no echo.
Their shadowy insubstantial ungraspable forms confused,
alarmed her . . . until on her return from Carlotta's es-
tablishment the whole frosty banality of her profession
pushed them to the background.
All desire, longing, hope . . . that was rooting in an
independent will . . . fell alvay from her, sere, sapless,
withered. There is absolutely nothing worth fighting for
in this life, she said to herself. One slides down the hill
... slowly . . . inevitably. illness, loss of beauty
112 THE RED HOUSE
. . these three prime enemies of the prostitute hover
all\ ays on the horizon. Her only choice: the gutter or the
hospital. For a few more fortunate, the poorhouse.
At the start Milada had felt a gleam of hope when she
noticed one or the other of the guests showing a friendly
interest in the girls. But although she herself was popular,
she could arouse no such feeling. A man now and then
would ask for her story, how she came to be there. The
simple bald veracity of her answer, that she had been born
in The Red House, seemed too commonplace. They, ap-
parently, wanted stronger fare, the fairy-tales told by the
other girls. In time Milada gave up striving for more than
her duty; she was content to satisfy the guests, the Madam.
It was easy; she was young, amiable and exquisitely neat.
Just one thing she could not endure: the lack of real
work. She had no talent for idleness. One morning she
went down into the Salon early, began to put it in order.
The chambermaid, coming in later, widened her yawn to
a gape of astonishment. "Don't faint, Anna," laughed Mil.
ada. "I did all this before you came. If you don't tell on
me, I'll go on helping you out. I need the exercise."
She did feel better. But every now and then, amid the
cheeriness of useful work, the gray visions would hover
like lowering clouds; the hospital ward, careless chatting
nurses, spectacled doctors. "That's fate . . . that the finish
for all of us." It quieted, dulling with fatalism. There was
no morbidity in her attitude, merely calm acceptance.
Suddenly, like a rough hand tearing her out of her calm,
came Horner, plunging down on this new material with
flaming energy. He wrenched her from out her spiritual
sand-waste, and placed her on the steepletop of his
ideology.
"Stand on the highest steepletop, girl, and look down
on the black swarm below, a stream of creeping insects.
They crawl, they hurry, they crowd . . . in your eyes,
 THE RED HOUSE
(rom your vantage height, they melt into one entity on the
broad avenue of life. Can you, on your steepletop, judge
the one or the other? Can you distinguish good and evil..
straight or crooked? Your Mitzi here, drinking herself into
unconsciousness, and the royal dame who but recently
received the Rose of Virtue from the hand of His Holiness
the Pope . . . for you, for us, they move in the same line
. . . towards the same aimless end. Down there, all is
al1"ke. ,
Milada pressed her hand to her eyes, her inner vision
dazzled by the full glare that pained, that showed her, piti-
lessly, how narrow her soul. She felt something pushing
its way in, something greater than all she had yet known:
Thought. And the first trembling question that parted her
lips, "Must we . . . we girls here . . . sink into the gut-
ter . . . miserably. . . ?,
He, with the insight of the true mentor, answered:
"Think of yourself in an African jungle, tortured by
hunger and thirst. Above your head hang sweet fruits,
dates, bananas. No living thing, a-hungered, would hesi-
tate to reach up and satisfy its needs . . . nor would you.
The jungle knows no law. Well, my daughter, go to-
morrow into the public park, and pluck the yellow rose
that satisfies your eye's hunger for beauty. Aha . . . the
Man of the Law lays a heavy hand on your shoulder. A
little yellow rose, withered by tomorrow . . . and in the
jungle you can take of the sweet food for many days. Does
the puzzle fit together? Where is the Law? Why may you
not pluck the rose?"
.. Because it's forbidden and the constable is watching,"
she replied cautiously.
"Ah . . . how ctever we arel Society, the High and
Mighty, hath proclaimed, 'He who plucks a flower here,
has stolen.' That's what they call an Article. And the
114 THE RED HOUSE
Article is upheld by a nearby uniform. But surely you're
not afraid of the uniform? You can outrun the constable?"
"He'll whistle and a lot of others will come.,.
"Exactly." Homer leaned back in his chair, his eyes
gleaming. "Now you've got hold of the thing by the right
end. Some one else will come, another and another . . .
the law has helpers from all sides, and you, the thief, '\Vith
your yellow rose . . . you bad girl with good taste in
flowers . . . you stand alone. Everything hangs on the law
as on a rope which Society stretches across its domain. He
who does not hang on the rope must stumble over it. And
he who stumbles is caught and locked up. If he screams,
a hand closes his mouth. You have two fists but the man
who holds you, in the name of the law, has fifty, a hun.
dred, the Mass . . . the march along the highway. Down
there . . . far below your steepletop. To stand alone is
to court disaster . . . down there, where the arm of the
law is strong."
Once more, his deepest, most secret plans fluttered out
in this development of her young psyche. "You,.. he re..
joiced, "you can bring my ideas to life . . . your birth,
your entire development predestine you to become the
bearer of a prodigious Conception. A harlot's child . . . a
child of Revenge . . . nourished on hatred, reared on
malice . . . you, the bodily incorporation of the brutal
egotism of a strong soul . . . a woman mad for revenge
lays her outcast spawn in a harlot-nest. . . . Gorgeous!
Your mother was a seeress . . . clairvoyant. Others are
pushed into this, pulled in, dance or creep in . . . but
this child lay in the filth before it could move a limb. Who
does not remember the Jew baby in the Manger? ...
Wait, ye broom-binders, this cuckoo's egg may yet surprise
you unpleasantly."
Systematically, logically, without haste, as becomes a
true pedagogue, he went about assorting, ordering the
 THE RED HOUSE
chaos of the girl's memories, experience, unclear concep-
tions; plowing the field of her mentality, preparing it for
the new seed. With far-sighted, intelligent plan he built
up her defective general education, taught her to know
nature, to appreciate the geographic world, the history of
human civilization. He opened the world of art and beauty
to her, cleared her thoughts, pitilessly, from prejudice and
vague fantasies, from the superstition and fatalism to
which weakened souls greedily cling.
In his method of instruction there were no fixed boqn-
daries; all was open, free to advance of thought. He said to
bet:, "All that can be thought out, taught, created, is an
image of nature filtered through a human brain. The in-
ferior human being stands amid things, seeing them all
through the medium of his brute substance. The higher
mind stands outside . . . to it we owe the far-working
verities. Every truth is spiritualized nature."
These weeks, the best and richest of Horner's wrecked
existence, brought him mental and physical well-being.
He kept himself in trim, mentally and physically, for the
hours in Milada's room. Elsewhere, too, he was more
agreeable, his wit lost its bitterness, his brilliance its cyni-
cism. Elsie Goldscheider looked on and smiled.
He said once to her, "You women with your bourgeois
background, your load of sentimental memories, are all of
no value. You are uprooted plants which have left their
best strength on the mother-earth and must remain sterile
elsewhere. But this girl has nothing to lose . . . she is
neither mother, nor daughter, nor does she drag about
with her the taint of social position. Behind her stands no
terror of ostracism. I tell you, Elise, the plant that can root
in desert sand bears strange fruit."
"Bombs, perhaps?" she queried.
"No . • . the gall-apples of my wisdom."
116 THE RED HOUSE

§7
Hrs most valuable gift to Milada was the consciousness
of her own personality, the Ego that belonged to her
alone. She had thought of herself thus far as a creature of
her environment, as a useful tool of Elise Goldscheider,
with duties to perform, and the final duty to accept inev..
itable destiny. She had become selfless, in the truest mean..
ing of the word.
Her soul's one positive possession was pride in The Red-
House and its growing fame in the great city. The Rules of
the house, hanging framed in her room, were the Law and
the Commandments to her. She had never transgressed
one of them. Every soul needs some altar at which to
kneel.
Horner tore down her primitive belief in the im-
portance of the place in which she lived, and gave her in
its stead primal belief in the freedom, the inviolability of
her personal Ego.
Listening, eyes dark with brooding, she stared beyond
him, out into the Unknown. . . .
..1 tell you, you . . . you are free . . . Milada Rezek,
the name, the conception for which it stands, may be
bound here. The I in you, the Unutterable, the Eternal,
the Idea wrapped in this captive body, that can go out
from here .. . that is free, always and forever. Has the
thought never come to you?,
"Never." Excitation darkened her voice.
"No other human being, no human law, has any author·
ity or power over your true Ego. It can burst all chains,
except those forged by its own thoughts. What goes on
within yourself, that alone has meaning. Not outer chance
. . . this outer world is not the core and content of your
being. Your true self will not begin nor end as harlot.
Here," his fingers touched her forehead, •'here lies the
 THE RED HOUSE 117

heart and core of Yourself. What is dreamed,

decided there, stands firm for the centuries. This body is
only your humble servant . . . train it, and you will have
done your duty. Live as harlot, or as empress . . . it is
all the same. Listen, let us shift the scene. . . . Do you
know the flat meadow land outside this imperial city?
Green and golden meadows, and row after row of
blossom-laden in the spring. Beyond rise the mountains;
farther away they rear themselves darker, more defiant,
more mighty. On these slopes, in hidden valleys, in the
climbing forests, live human beings . . . young men and
girls, young, strong as you. They live isolated, with their
beasts; '\vhen strangers come, they flee farther into the fast-
nesses. They know or care nothing of your world, your
joys, your laws or your wickedness. There you take
berries, an apronful, and flowers . . . no one cares. Go
out there . . . hire out . . . every housewife would take
a young strong worker like you. You know that door down
there is open? Why hesitate?"
She laid her long brown hand with tapering fingers on
her hot forehead. "I . . . I can't . . . picture it."
"No matter. The world is large . . . that was but one
set of scenery. There are many others. Picture now, your-
self in quiet shabby dark gown on the street evenings,
looking for rooms . . . cheap rooms for a decent girl,
with meals. Here, this will do . . . you are to share it
with an anemic milliner's apprentice. Respectable land-
lady, widow, spectacles, lace cap . . . flowerpots in the
windows. The widow asks your story, listens with tears
. . . you are an orphan . . . she gives an extra slice of
bread for supper. Then you go out to look for work . . .
oh, plenty to be found . . . seamstress, day nurse, embroi-
dery to take home . . . mending . . . what you will. But
the nights . . . lonely. But you are steadfast . . . at night
only the anemic room-mate, evenings by the lamp with
118 THE RED HOUSE
the widow. For special treat, a glass of tea . . . does that
allure? Plenty such comers into which you could creep."
A distorted smile, wrung by deep sadness, curled his
lips.
"Now your life has become capable of development.
waiting for something. You both-you and the
little milliner-you feel longing that breaks your cloistered
peace.
"You know the spring in the parks? Trees and shrubs
blossom, sing with color. The air whispers softly, whispers
to all your hearts. To you too. Your eyes widen in sadness.
You seek . . . seek . . . you and all the other pale little
girls. Then love comes . . . and you must forget all your
little rules and principles . . . not too clean ..•
not too prudish . . . make eyes . . . lisp •.. murmur
. . . squeak and weep . . . you'll understand it then.
You'll marry, have children, cook, scrub, wash diapers .••
Another set of scenery. Like the idea?"
She answered. "No . . . I cannot believe that I am so
free to choose. The police will find me out and bring me
back if Madam wishes. I cannot sew, I cannot embroider
. . . there is nothing I can do." She laid both hands on
her slender hips. "I cannot even bear children. Yes . . .
it is all good, as you picture it . . . but not what I would
wish."
"No matter . . . Satan will still show you the glories
of the world. You may attain whatever your Will de..
mands. There is no stagnation . . . no firm outlines. Life
is constant flux, as the old Greek said and Madame Gold-
scheider puts into practice, when she smuggles little work..
ing-girls, shop clerks, governesses and other angels over the
border of her district."
The experiment was successful. Milada's captive soul
tore itself slolvly loose from its mother-earth; her thoughts,
hitherto weighted down by environment, soared out into
 THE RED HOUSE 119

limitless distance and returned heavy with new wondrous

pollen. The unnatural stricture of her imagination van-
ished before her exploring mind, and the place on which
she stood became a watch-tower over all the pulsing life
of the world. She knew now, "There is nothing cut off,
isolated, dead. All is coherence, flux. . . ."
These girls of the Salon, gaily gowned, rouged, among
whom she lived, and those others who walked the side-
walks under the shadow of night; the proud ladies of the
Promenade who gazed down contemptuously, the fortu..
nate girls, arm in arm, with watchful mother nearby; all
these belonged together, were one compact mass in the
world of material form, and no arbitrary law could cut
borders within its Oneness.

§8
TowARDS the end of the season, lovely Camilla had a
stroke of luck. A Russian engineer, happening in by
chance, fell for the exquisite creature and took her away
with him. She was the chief attraction of The Red House,
but Mrs. Goldscheider let her go with no objections, for
the amorous swain had most liberally settled Camilla's ac-
count. Camilla herself, blushing like a bride in her pretty
going-away gown, bade them all an affectionate adieu.
Olympia sighed and wiped her eyes. "Yes, it's nice . . . to
travel, live in good hotels, wear good clothes. And have
only one man around . . . that's the best of all."
The Red House watched, eagerly interested, for the
Madam's choice of a substitute. There were never less than
eight girls in the Salon.
"Maybe she'll get Fritzi from Carlotta's place?" Olym..
pia, the Madam's only confidante, shook her head. Fritzi
had sent word she wouldn't leave Carlotta, even to take
120 THE RED HOUSE
the leading rl>le here, the place of the so-called "Cham..
pagne girl," the favorite.
Faces fell, eyes exchanged questioning glances, there
were excited whispers in comers when, two days later, a
tall, raw-boned girl with brick-red cheeks and smooth
yellow hair moved into Camilla's dainty bedroom.
takably peasant stock, not the sort that Madam preferred.
She shook hands with each one of them, introduced herself
as Bina Michal and said she was glad to meet them.
The girls giggled unrestrainedly and Laura opened a _,
package on the bed, drawing out poppy-seed cakes and a
tail-end of sausage, to the delight of the group. But the
new girl turned with resolute calm, and informed the im-
pudent Jewess that her hand sat loose in its joints and
any one who wished to prove it . . . Hands on hips, she
faced them fearlessly.
Pockmarked Rosa snorted, and indignantly replied that
that sort of country bumpkin behavior wasn't the fashion
here. She turned and marched out proudly, the others fol-
lowing. The new girl, her fresh face wearing a touch of
defiance, settled herself in her quarters.
Mrs. Goldscheider had not gone to any trouble for this
new acquisition. She was in her office that morning, when
the brought in a neatly dressed peasant girl who
handed the Madam a card on which was written only her
name and the address of The Red House. Accustomed to
such introductions, she asked no further questions. The
girl lvas young and strong, bade fair to be useful, and
seemed sufficiently informed as to her whereabouts.
Bina Michal said little the first \Veeks of her sojourn,
but evidenced an eager interest in all that went on around
her, and a desire to be useful. She was not the sort the
Madam would have taken some years before, and she
needed training. But she was biddable and held her Olvn.
"Excellent material for Mother Zimmermann/' thought
 THE RED HOUSE 121

Milada. But even the epicures of the Goldscheider Salon

seemed to savor this bit of nature.
Milada was the only one of the girls with whom Bina
cared to be more friendly. "Rezek? That sounds like the
border-folk down our way. You Bohemian?" Milada did
not know. Her mother was, possibly. She remembered
strange little songs her mother used to sing. Bina liked her
and showed extreme confidence in that she gave her money
to take care of.
Jewish Laura and "left-side Anna," so-called because
of a slight twist in her left arm, remained Bina' s enemies.
They annoyed her, mocked her peasant manners and ex-
pressions and particularly the phrase with which she closed
every jovial tale as well as every quarrel, "But I have
Cyril.•'
No one could get her to say who this Cyril might be.
From her very first day there, Bina Michal brought
order and system into the chaos of bordellife. Every day,
punctually at noon, she appeared in the Salon, carefully
gowned and coiffed, rested and bright-eyed, with some
sort of work, usually crude-colored embroidery on gray
linen. She made aprons, table-covers, cushions, curtains,
in an incredibly short time. She retired for a nap after
the early dinner, then spent hours tidying up her room,
cupboards and dresser drawers, arranging and sorting her
belongings. At seven, full of energy and the desire for
action, she was in the Salon. The most disagreeable guests
were told off for her. She accepted them without a mur-
mur, even later, when she knew more tricks of the trade.
She was convinced that only the most beautiful,
amiable ot girls were allowed in The Red House, and that
being there divided her forever from the "country bump-
kins" who came into the city to scrub, clean and cook. She
confided to Milada that she feared she could never get
used to that work any more. The easy, and, for her, rich
122 THE RED HOUSE
earnings intoxicated the peasant girl, although she always
seemed to fear some unknown evil lowering nearby, and
moved through life with cautious and simple cunning. But
always, until the last, she was a being apart from the other
girls in The Red House, all of whom had a mondaine air,
cultivated carefully by Madame Goldscheider.
There were the "Inseparables," Fanni Schwabe and
Putzi Bleier. The first now called herself Fanchon, a thin
fragile child of humble parents with the cheeks of a con..
sumptive and great blue eyes hungry for life. Mrs. Gol<b,
scheider had taken her in only by request of an influential
patron, who came back to see her again and again. The
girl had a childlike unembarrassed joyousness, a sweet
playful abandon that might well charm and hold a man
weary of the world and its demands. He had given her a
beautiful country home in the hope that she might grow
well and strong there. But she ran away, she could not
stand the loneliness, she wanted youth, noise, laughter
around her. There was rhythm and a breath of beauty
about her pale fragility that sought the steepest, the short-
est way down to the abyss of death. She was the gayest, the
maddest of them all; then again she would sit with knees
drawn up, a rosary running through her thin fingers, lost
in an agony of fear of death.
Fanchon had rich imagination and could spin yarns by
the hour. Her most attentive hearer was Putzi, her very
opposite. A robust, very handsome girl with little mind,
wit, or fantasy, with little else but primitive sensual urge.
She came of a good, well-to-do family, but from fourteen
on was the prey of any who desired her. She liked money
for the good things it bought for her and soon fell into the
hands of a professional pander who did not at first take her
from her parents' home but arranged secret rendezvous
for her, with liberal patrons. It was a neat scheme, but the
police intervened and both were arrested. Putzi told her
 THE RED HOUSE 123

fad1er she would take another name but that she wished
to continue the life.
Her own mind slow, indolent, she would lie for hours
on the cushions, listening to Fanchon. The latter's
piest days, of which she liked most to tell, were her
ences as artist's model. She had been the queen of a group
of studios and the luxury that came later seemed pale by
comparison with the gay days and nights in a joyous crowd
that danced and laughed and painted her in a hundred
poses.
Then, when her health gave out, and she grew too thin.,
they looked after her, outfitted her, found her a place in a
cafe, a sensible elderly lover. "Such dear boys," she sighed.
Then came other experiences, not so good. Landladies who
took everything she had . . . there was the old beast who
. . . Each one of the group around Fanchon's bed had
something to tell.
In the midst of it, the door opened, and Olympia came
in. With unusual gravity and an excellent attempt at
severity she remarked: "You sit here chatting stupidities
and don't know what's happened? Our Madam's going to
sell out."
A bomb would have had no greater effect. The girls
sprang up, overwhelming her with questions. Only Bina
was silent, and Milada, lvho stood leaning against the door,
her eyes wide.
"I've known there was something up . . . she gave me
a hint now and then. But I thought I'd better not talk . . .
and yesterday . . . yesterday Sucher was in there with her
. . and when he went out he stopped in the door and
called back, 'A good enough sort, and understands the
business.' And the Madam said, "Fine . . . 'twould be
too bad to spoil this good business."
"A man? Whew . . . that means beatings," remarked
Putzi.
 THE RED HOUSE
Gisi Geyger bit at her well manicured nails. "I'm going
• o Ferdy wants me to get out anyway."
0

"No, nothing doing," exclaimed Olympia with energy.

"If it's a sale, the inventory must be correct. . . ."
"If I don't like the new management, I'll be respectable
again. The Baroness will take me back, I know. . . 0"
Quick plans, restless excitement, discontent
. . . the room seethed. Bina alone was quiet, and Milada.
As always in moments of turmoil, Olympia recalled Paris
and began a monologue of memories. Milada went out anQ;
shut the door. Turmoil in her soul, too. "Sold . . . we're
to be sold!, Memories arose.
Her mother in a gay cambric skirt, red-brolvn curls
tossed back, moving about the house, singing gaily. And
Janka . . . the pale ghost of a pale woman swam past on
memory's sea. Now she herself . . . yes, she was free . . .
again she heard Mrs. Goldscheider's words. "When I draw
out of this business you owe no one here, have no duty
towards any one." Giddy, she closed her eyes. The world
was so lvide . . . where now? Milada shut herself in her
room, pressed her brow to the cool window pane.
She had some money put away and an expensive outfit.
That might keep her going for a while until she found
something. Something safe, good . . . work . . . she '\'as
strong and well . . . she could go anywhere. Perhaps to
Paris?
But try as she might, she could not tear her imagination
away from the circle of her own environment. Again and
again they came, the faces of the others, frightened, aim-
lessly excited . . . as always here . . . always that terror
of the New. They felt fear . . . not a spark of courage or
faith. Ah, yes . . . that strong faith in one's self. uYou
are inviolable . . . nothing can harm the real You.··
Could she ever inoculate them with that belief? Homer
might preach, "The door is open, you are free." She saw
 THE RED HOUSE 125

the chains. She could open the door . . . but could she
smile and be servile for a kind word, a bit of friendliness?
Could she lie about all that lay behind her?
Neverl Something arose within her, choking her. It was
not hate, not dislike of the world outside . . . it was some-
thing strange . . . new. Sympathy, comprehension, pity
... a feeling of unbreakable solidarity with those others
here, those who would remain if she went a'vay. She felt
herself one with all these women, these young girls whose
life plays itself out under shadow of the night . . . they
who came up from the depths to dance in the glare of sin
and then fall back into the depths again.
And Milada saw clearly. She saw it was not the petty
money debt that bound her to The Red House. It was an
unshaken Will from deep within her soul, gathering in
protecting arms all near her. A feeling that could not be
caught in words, a feeling that battled with and triumphed
over Self, over Horner's sacred Ego.
When Horner came, her vision was almost clear . . .
not quite. "Horner, she's selling out. I am free, I am
going to Paris." And she wondered why she said that.
"Paris . . . who gave you that idea?"
"Olympia," she spoke, only half heeding.
"Olympia. Hm. Yes, a handsome minx at one time. First
lover, good all eminently respectable; just a
little foretaste of bliss. Then came a circus rider, cleared
the ways, took her to Paris. She learned the lingo . . .
soared aloft in the social class of her admirers . . . a Pre-
tender to the Throne was the peak of her glory. Then a
German prince, from whose affection a half-year in the
hospital hardly healed her. She reformed, became govern-
ness, fell back again, dropped down the ladder, landed
here. What's she got out of all of it? A few hundred photo-
graphs, two good diamonds, unset, a lot of phony jewelry
 THE RED HOUSE
and leucorrhea. Why expatriate yourself for that? You can
get it all here just as well."
"What shall I do? Stay here?"
"Yes . . . here . . . stay here. Let your mind go ex.
ploring here." With unwonted solemnity his eyes pierced
her face. "You must stay here . . . this is your battlefield
. . . from this place you may conquer the world. You are
rich enough. You have learned to think. Would you spend
that inner richness out there, in the world of the Fortu..
nate? Look around you here . . . make order here . .;.
make conscious human beings out of the harlot proletariat.
Organize them . . . teach them to fightl For this I have
educated you, trained you. Now is the time for action.
Know the story of Don Quixote? Read it, ponder it. There
is the true hero, believe in him your whole life long. All
others are fakirs. Come closer, I will tell you something.
Out of the mouths of these harlots little girl-souls laugh.
Queens \\'allow in filthy beds. Mothers weep. Learn to
know them and you will love them, these outcasts, these
torn souls, these shipwrecked identities. And one thing
more . . . however great your humanitarianism, you will
learn that it is, at its source and beginnings, only a tiny
rill in the mire and it's name is Egotism."

§g
THE night was mad. Excitement seethed through the
house. Madame Goldscheider confirmed the news of a sale,
spoke to several of the guests. Homer was angry, did not
come into the Salon. Many guests were there, some of the
girls quite out of bounds.. Something unwholesome, crawl·
ing, quivered through the excesses. Martha Dubhe carried
her client, a little blond Count, out of the Salon in her
arms. He opened his purse, scattered its contents over her.
Bina lay on the floor, scraping up the coins. . . .
 THE RED HOUSE
When Milada awoke next morning she heard of the
visit of a strange man to the Madam's office, come with
Sucher for a long conference. Then the Madam went off
with them in a cab. Bina told her all this, quite calm,
busily stitching a table cover.
The girls gathered in Fanchon's room. Anna the cham-
bermaid dashed in. "Quick . . . get dressed. The new
Madam's down there . . . out in the street '\\rith Gold-
scheider." She ran on to carry the news to other rooms.
The girls crowded to the windows. Yes, there on the op·
posite side of the street, stood Madame Goldscheider with
a gray-clad lady of medium height, whose very small head
twisted and turned like a bird's. The similarity was in-
creased by the gray feather boa around her throat. "Looks
like a parrot," giggled "left-side" Anna, but no one else
laughed. The excitement of the moment was too great.
The two women crossed to The Red House. The buzzer
shrilled from below. A quiver seemed to run through d1e
building and the girls scattered like a flock of frightened
chickens.
§ 10
YES . . . it was a fact. The Red House was sold, and
became the property of Miss Josephine Aglaia von Miller
.... an elderly, thin, dignified person who for more than
twenty-five years had managed the household of a pastor in
a rich Steiermark living. uSuch a fine parish," she would
sigh, in memory. "Such rich meadows, garden, live
stock . . ." The final transfer of The Red House took
place several days after Whitsunday. Mrs. Goldscheider
was in her office from early morning. There was a constant
coming and going, purveyors, agents, even a few old
clients who were like friends of the house, came to bid
her farewell. It was known that she '\\1as leaving d1e city.
..Somewhere out there in Germany," was her vague de-
128 THE RED HOUSE
scription of her destination. The girls came for a last word
of advice, a quarrel, a complaint. Mrs. Goldscheider said
that they must talk to the new Madam. Nothing would be
changed in the house, at least not at first. Olympia alone
had been discharged. The new owner did not want a
housekeeper, she could do all that herself . . . she had
kept house long enough. Poor Olympia, weary veteran of
love. Wandering again . . . this time to Galicia, a big
cantine. . . .
By dinner time every last arrangement had been mad-e,
all business settled. Mrs. Goldscheider was ready to go,
waiting only for her successor. Her lips tightened scam..
fully at the thought. This meager \Voman with her pale,
avaricious hands, and her eternal fear that some one from
her former home might drift in here . . . she was to take
up the reins now laid down. Elise Goldscheider glanced
at her own capable fingers. When Sucher named the
yearly profit, the \Voman's eyes had blazed in greedy joy.
"But the risk . . . the risk?" she exclaimed...They'll get
. k • • • d"1e.''
SlC
"Don't worry, dear Madam," replied Sucher. "This isn•t
like a stock farm. When one of them falls sick you send
her to be cured. If she doesn't get \Veil, there's plenty more
to be had. We're in constant communication with all the
best places in the Provinces . . . fine girls they can send
you. And then . . . three hundred bottles of champagne
of an evening, sometimes. What's your net on that, Mrs.
Goldscheider?"
uone hundred and fifty," she replied.
And so on, endlessly, until the old \voman had snapped
at the bait like a hungry fish.
Well, let it go as it lvould . . . she was through. She
wanted to slip away, with no exciteme11t, no fare\vells, as
soon as the nelv owner came. Usually so calm, Elise Gold·
scheider was nervous now, a prey to suspicious fears. She
f
 THE RED HOUSE 129
threw her bunch of keys into a desk drawer, locked that
and sealed the key in an envelope addressed to Miss
Josephine von Miller. Then she touched the bell. "Send
Milada to me.,
Odd, she thought, as she looked back on the years here
. . . how this girl had been before her eyes from her very
first day. All through the years something personal, some-
thing of more than casual interest had moved her when
she watched Milada. She liked her sort. Why not lay her
last commands on those capable shoulders?
Milada came in. "I trust you not to say anything. I'm
leaving here in an hour. Should a wire come for me, send
it to the Hotel Royal. And keep that crazy Dubhe girl
quiet, if you can, until I go."
She looked at some figures in her notebook, then went
on. "One thing more . . . do not let Homer befog you.
Life is clear, is not as complicated, as exacting, as he would
make out. Follow your straight path; too much brooding
is weakness. I advise you to see if you can't be of some use
to the new Madam. She'll need it, poor soul. If you are
clever enough . . . Ah . . . Miss von Miller."
She rose, throwing Milada a short grave glance.
"You are punctual, Madam, I am glad to see. Every-
thing is ready. Here are the books, the key of the desk
... the safe. And now, let me make you acquainted with
your most valuable young lady. Milada knows this house
and all its workings from top to bottom."
Miss von Miller raised her lorgnette to her eyes. "Good
. . . but tell me, whaes all that noise?"
Mrs. Goldscheider shrugged lightly. "Can't help that
. . . there's always a bit of noise." Milada, anxious, moved
toward the door.
Sounds of protest, the door flew open, and Martha
Dubhe, dressed for the street but without a hat, dashed in.
"You're not going like that . . . No, don't touch me,"
130 THE RED HOUSE
she screamed as Milada moved to,vards her. "I have a
knife. ·You must answer me . . . do I stay?"
Elise Goldscheider's cold eyes n1et the girl's flaming
glance. "Here is the new Madam, she will answer any
questions.''
"Oh, no . . . that's not in the bond. You dragged me
here . . . slave- driver . . . torturer . . . she- devil . . .
Where is my child? I want to know where my baby is."
Josephine von Miller gaped, aghast. "But . . . please
. . . what does this . . .?" \
No one noticed her. Over her shoulder Mrs. Gold-
scheider threw the words, "Miss von Miller, my lawyer
will settle any money matters. I'll pay two-thirds of this
debt if you like. You'd better let her go."
"Swindler . . . don't think you can get out that way.
Give me that address . . . you tore it from my breast ...
the tiny baby."
Inwardly angry, outwardly steel-hard, Mrs. Goldscheider
took refuge behind biting irony. "Rather late date for your
maternal love to wake up;' she said. Then with a sweeping
glance which included the open-mouthed new Madam,
Milada and curious faces in the hall beyond, she con-
tinued. "I took in this girl when she hadn't a cent nor a
rag to her back, nothing but debts. She hadn't even paid
the hospital . . . she'd have gone out on the street. But I
took her here, paid her debts, took the burden of the child
from her, took care of it. She never asked for it then ...
she never asked all these three years . . . not when she
was well-fed, well-clothed, strong and well. She says she
wants her child. God knows where it is . . . gone the way
of most of the poor mites."
Martha Dubhe staggered; the deadly truth stood clear
before her. "She doesn't know? That baby . . . tossed out
into the world like a lost ball. And I don't even know what
it looked like. Oh, God, maybe it suffered . . . was hun··
 THE RED HOUSE
gry, cold. They took it from me. I was weak . . . sick.
They said it would be cared for . . . my baby. I never
even saw its face." She sobbed, swayed and fell into
Milada·s arm, held out to support her.
"She's crazy. Ought to be sent to the asylum," mur-
mured Mrs. Goldscheider, catching up her bag and um-
brella.
..yes, but . . . won't you . . . explain." The Miller
woman tried to get out a coherent word.
"Lock the house door behind me," said Mrs. Gold-
scheider to the janitress and slid from the room before the
others realized that she had gone. The slam of the door
aroused Martha. "Don't . . . don't let her . . . go.''
"Hush, Martha, hush . . . be quiet now. It will all be
arranged. Come with me." With murmured soothing
words, Milada's firm arm encircled the weeping girl and
led her out. The janitress followed, closing the office door
behind her.
Left alone, Josephine von Miller gasped, choked, stared
around with wide despairing eyes. "Oh . . . Gocl . . .
what have I done? What have I gotten into? How can I
ever. . . ?"
She dropped by the desk; her small head in its little old-
fashioned bonnet drooped helplessly.
 BOOK FOUR-SALON MILLER

..

§1

THE new Madam had nothing of her predecessor's

resistant mental fiber, nor any of the qualities needed in
her new business.
She had been a model housekeeper for her pastor, for
many years. But-the old man would sigh even while sing..
ing her praises-no curate would stay long, and the farm
hands, taken on for the harvest, complained of the food
they got. Miss Fini was so economical . . . almost too
saving for the comfort even of her master. Money stuck to
her fingers, she counted every ounce of butter, ran after
every hen she suspected of laying her eggs in neighbors•
hay. She bargained for fees for 'veddings, christenings,
funerals. Her clerical master gre·w· fat on the potato and
dried pea diet to which she condemned him, for she did
not believe in eating meat. But he was too easy-going to
complain. And then there was a young Diece" gro,ving
41

up in the house, a girl with an odd resemblance to "Aunt

Fini" in her soft brown eyes and well cut thin lips, but
with the sallow skin and characterless nose of her "god-
father," the pastor. No . . . the clerical gentleman did not
complain. But Miss Fini was the terror of the village. And
every girl with a fatherless child was the target of her re-
proaches.
132
I
 THE RED HOUSE 133
Young Fini soon cut loose, and her "Aunt,. refused to
say anything about her. Rumor had it that the girl '\Vas
in Paris under the protection of a rich elderly aristocrat
Miss Fini becan1e more and more tight-lipped and silent.
Then the pastor died and left everything he owned to
Miss Fini, "the faithful soul." Regretfully she moved
from the rectory, now made ready for the new incumbent,
and established herself in a little house farther up the
mountain, which had been the personal property of the
old pastor. But she could not long remain idle. And the
thought of living on her capital, letting her money also
be idle, '\vas too much for her avaricious soul. Not all
avarice it was, her greed for money. She had suffered
enough under the spendthrift recklessness of her father,
Captain von Miller. As her mind wandered back into the
past 'vith its anxieties, its catastrophes, she remembered
the man who had sold the family possessions on her
father's death, and had obtained for her the position of
housekeeper in the rectory.
To him she now turned, for advice as to investment of
her little capital in some business that would mean activity
for her and a good profit. After some meaningless corre-
spondence, he sent word for her to come to Vienna at
once. "Splendid enterprise . . . big profit . . . living in-
cluded . . . come at once."
She packed in haste and took the first train. Kessler, the
agent, put the proposition before her . . . The Red
House. Horror at the mere thought of running a bordel
. . . living there . . . gave '\vay to breathless greed as
Kessler laid the books before her, running off figures that
seemed incredible. "In God's name," she sighed, and
signed the documents. Although she had but the vaguest
comprehension of the mortgage Mrs. Goldscheider had on
the house, the interest demands, the reason why she could
call the place hers with so small an advance payment ..•
 THE RED HOUSE
it was Greek to her, but Kessler assured her it was the most
favorable deal, for all concerned, which he had closed in
many a year.
Josephine von Miller was richly endowed with passive
energy. She could endure, be patient, and yet, at the last,
attain her purpose. Apparently mild, yielding, her
gummily tough resistance broke down the strongest op-
posing will. But she utterly lacked Elise Goldscheider's
purposeful strength, her calm surety. And most of all did
she lack the other woman's foremost qualification for the
business: an understanding of the needs and impulses of
these shipwrecked souls, the ability to form contacts with
their individualities.
The girls worked well with Mrs. Goldscheider. She was
hard but just. They felt she understood.
The new owner had scarcely taken up the reins of man.
agement before the household divided itself into two
parties. One the new Madam; the other all the exploited
discontented slaves who would not work for this stranger,
but rather against her. Her niggardliness, her avarice . . .
her uncertain servile affectation with the guests, her harsh-
ness towards the girls, made them her enemies almost from
the first. They resented her erratic unjustified reprimands,
and, most of all, her indecorous curiosity, her distrust of
all around her. She seemed to sense enemies every,vhere,
she sought to win spies among them, to turn one against
the other. But the girls were loyal to one another. There
were quarrels all day, and frowning faces at night.
The mechanism of the business, too, the economic side
of it, was a strange language to the new owner. Her idea
was to save, to save expense anywhere, everywhere. Like
any market-woman she quarreled and haggled over the
daily outgo, with the only result that purveyors and agents
shoved their poorest wares into her hands. She would take
anything that seemed to mean a saving of a felv pennies.
 THE RED HOUSE
Mrs. Goldscheider had her agents and helpers every-
where, won by a judicious and generous outlay of tips.
Hotel clerks, police hangers-on, doormen in the hospitals,
kept her in touch with an inexhaustible source of new
fresh human material, with which she could speculate, and
which was her best investment. Miss von l\1iller refused to
have anything to do 'vith these "extortioners." She needed
no new material; 'vhat she had was good enough. The
girls' new gowns were of cheaper materials, their lingerie
coarser . . . but the price, to them, was the same as be-
fore. When she attempted to charge for soap, perfumes,
cosmetics, a storm arose that alarmed her into a speedy
retreat. But she cut down on the supply of these goods and
on their quality. Refreshments sold in the Salon were of
inferior quality, the portions smaller, but the prices re-
mained the same.
Naturally there were consequences. Rumors spread.
"The Red House isn't what it used to be." "The girls do
nothing but complain and expect a chap to help them."
"The new Madam's a silly ass." "Oh, yes . . . when
Madame Goldscheider was there, not a place anything like
. town. B ut now. . . .,
as good 1n
At the next quarterly accounting, Miss Fini, who knew
nothing of true book-keeping, but could only write down
item by item, found her profits far below those of her pre-
decessor. She blamed herself for taking up with something
of which she had so little knowledge, then turned her
anger on the robust janitress. But here she heard a few
bitter truths as to her own qualities. "Just that mug of
yours is enough to tum away the guests the minute they
come inside the door. Of course they complain and then
run off to Mother Zimmermann . . ." This and consider-
able more.
The storm spread throughout the entire house. Miss
Fini evidenced an ability to curse which they never would
 l.,HE RED HOUSE
have suspected, given her aristocratic birth and clerical
past. She lost her head completely, raged from room to
room, called the girls "thieves and swindlers," tossed up
the mattresses to look for hidden loot. What hurt her most
of all, added to her rage, was the realization that she sat
amid huge possibilities for profit and did not know how
to mine them. She was too refined, she said to herself, too
much of a lady. That Jewess . . . yes, she had known how
to dig all the gold that must be there, ready to hand.
And the girls . . . all in a conspiracy against her. Of
course she spied on them, listened at the doors . • . of
course. Now she knew the ringleader, that Milada.
She did have a certain respect for Milada that made her
cease her complaints of Horner's unprofitable visits. But
she resented Milada's care of Martha Dubhe, whose health
was breaking down under the strain of her uncontrolled
nerves. For three months the girl lay in bed each day. But
evening after evening she was on duty in the Salon, and
the house physician refused to send her for treatment.
This day, at the keyhole of Martha's room, Miss Fini
heard Milada's voice. She knocked, then walked in. Milada
rose from beside the bed, where she had been applying a
compress to Martha's forehead. Angry, the Miller woman
flung the bed curtains apart. "Still in bed?" she shrilled
"What does this mean? I've had enough of your caprices.
You'll get out of here. I've already spoken to Sucher."
Martha Dubhe half rose, the sharp light fell on her
ghastly pale face. "Go? Where? Well . . . I don't care."
She turned to the \Vall, unheeding the storm of invective
that poured from the Madam's thin lips.
Milada l\ ai ted, scorn in her gray eyes. At the first pause
1

she spoke. "Send her to the hospital."

"Hospital? They won't take her there. She's perfectly
well . . . just lazy. Came downstairs all right until this
 THE RED HOUSE
week . . . just lies there and drinks." She took an angry
step towards the bed. Milada caught her ann, firmly.
"Don't touch her. Mrs. Goldscheider would never have
let this girl lie here. Of course Dr. Lamberg doesn't want
her to go to the hospital He'd rather get the two gulden
for a visit."
..Two gulden,'' wailed Josephine.
"We'll pay it ourselves. But you should treat the doctor
better, then he'll do whatever you want. And besides, you
should tip the hospital receiving clerk, then you wouldn't
need a doctor's certificate. This girl should have been in
the hospital three months ago. It isn't only her nerves.
She had a bad muscle cramp the other night . . . when
the customer was here. That's bad for the house, people
talk. And when she's gone, give Gisi the big room. She's
been waiting for it. It'll put her in better humor."
The calm dominance in Milada's words and manner
was like a life-raft to Miss Josephine's uneasy mind. She
clung to it, taking new life.
"Yes, that can be done. But this Gisi tore my best lace
curtain last week. And now she locks herself in. Any one
can get along with me, but I can't stand for such imperti-
nences.
,.
Mizzi for instance . . . she quarrels even with
you.
"You can get a dozen like Mizzi anywhere. She'd be
small loss." Milada made a fresh compress for Martha.
"But it lvould be bad policy to make Gisi angry because of
that fool curtain."
"But th e money Ioss. . . .,
"You'd have a much greater money loss, if you keep
Gisi angry," replied Milada promptly. "There's her friend
Schoeller, he's liable to order a hundred gulden's worth of
champagne if he feels like it. And half of that is clear
profit. Last night he wouldn't even smoke our cigarettes,
he was so cross."
 THE RED HOUSE
She paused a moment, drew up the coverlet over Martha.
"I know this business as I kno\v my own pocket." The
words came casually, as if unintentional, but they did not
fail of their effect. Josephine von Miller's face lightened,
her cheeks took on more natural color, a more amiable ex-
.
press1on.
"She's asleep, we'd better go." Milada opened the door,
let the other woman out first, and stood looking down the
corridor. Easy, casual, but in reality keenly alive to the
play of features on the sallo\v face. Josephine von Miller
was fighting a silent fight with herself. Finally her tight-
ened lips opened. "You . . . Rezek."
"Yes?"
"You've been here long?"
"Twenty-one years, my whole life." She looked the older
woman full in the eyes.
"Ought to learn it in that time . . ." Again the silent
struggle, but doubt and suspicion '\Von. Miss Fini turned
without another word and walked down the corridor to
Gisi's room.
"Twenty-one years," sh'e sighed. "Why didn't I learn
something sensible all the years in the rectory ..... Gisi
lay in bed when the Madam opened her door. Hastily she
covered a bottle of brandy on the nearby stand, then fell
back again, with another puff at her short, thick Havana
cigarette. Gisi was debating whether she should accept
her Bertie's suggestion and go back to model in the studios,
for the summer at least. But she '\Vas growing indolent, and
life was easy here, no responsibility. It would be great fun
at first of course, and Bertie was a dear boy. But when he
was tired of her, then . . . the street. "Oh, lttell," she
thought when the Madam entered. But she lay still,
watching the other's uneasy restless movements, touching
the torn curtain, glaring at the half-concealed bottle.
"Brings in brandy from outside," were Josephine von
 THE RED HOUSE 139
Miller·s angry comments which, however she kept to her·
self. "rll have to put up a new curtain," she began, un-
certain.
"I'll pay for it." Gisi flung down her cigarette, jerked
herself up and stood firm on her two pretty little feet. Her
eyes spoke clearly. The Madam's blood chilled. She was
paralyzed by consciousness of her helplessness, of her in-
ability to ward off the bankruptcy she sa'v hovering over
her, her po1verlessness to do anything or be anything in
this house. Sinking into a sea of impotency she clung to
the spar of long habit. She raised two fingers of her right
hand and exclaimed in deep conviction:
"The Hand of God lies heavy on the blasphemer and
the evil doer. Woe unto youl,
All unwitting, this outburst helped her more than all
her calculated malice and tricks. Gisi stood dumbfounded.
She would have been ready for a blow, but this! She de·
cided not to follow Bertie's advice. Things were becoming
interesting here.
Next day Milada received orders to accompany the
Madam to the hospital. Josephine was uncommunicative,
and sighed deeply each time Milada demanded money for
a tip. There seemed to be so many. Finally, all was ar-
ranged and Martha was to be brought in the following
day.
"So much money," sighed Josephine. "Who'll get that
back for me?'
"The new girl," replied Milada, matter-of-fact. "You
can get something suitable, cheap."
"Sucher is angry." •
"Sucher is much too expensive." Milada dismissed
Sucher with a gesture, and walked on briskly. Her new
mistress tripped anxiously behind her. Suddenly she
caught the girl's arm.
 THE RED HOUSE
"Could we go . . . now . . . where you might find
aomething . . . suitable, perhaps . . . for nothing?"
"Not for nothing," was Milada's answer. "But cheap."
She turned and walked back in the direction of the hos-
pital. "It's down there on the quay," she said, pointing
with her parasol.
"Another agent? They pester me enough."
"Nonsense . . . we needn't bother about agents."
Josephine was shocked at the casual "we." But she con-
tinued bravely. "Those hotel clerks are unreliable."
"It's not a hotel." Milada was curt now, moving on
quickly.
Josephine von Miller, for a fleeting moment, knew re-
bellion. Why should she take orders from this girl? Her
underling. Well, when she got home, she could ease her
mind. Now what? Milada halted, looked up at rows of
proud new houses going up on the river bank. "Don't
know the way?" sneered Josephine. "We'd better have
taken Mrs. Goldscheider's directory."
"If you can find that name," Milada pointed to a dark
comer where a couple of little houses cowered between
vacant lots and coal pockets, "in the directory, then per-
haps you'd better come here tomorrow, alone." Her eyes
were modestly cast dolvn, but the older woman fairly
hissed.
"Such impertinence! How dare you? What do you ..
Milada did not lose her casual calm. "I was debating
whether I had better take you up there with me, that's
all." She drew figures in the sandy road with her parasol.
"You see, up there .. . it isn't always safe for strangers.
But one can get marvelous material there. And when
Black Edi-that's what they call him-is in good humor,
he's very cheap. But it's a bit of a risk. Mrs. Zimmermann
just escaped with her life, once. But Edi knows me for
many years now, and he'll not harm me, even if he should
 THE RED HOUSE 141

happen to be sober. I hope not, for he's a hard customer

then and I shan't come to a deal."
dare you bring me to such a place? I can have
decent agents, as many as I want. I'll "
"Please." Milada laid a firm hand on the excited Jo-
sephine's ann. "Don't scream so. That policeman is look-
ing at us. We mustn't attract attention. . . ."
The patrolman passed with a side glance. Josephine von
Miller grew pale. Milada continued: "You've got to know
those out-of-the-way corners. The others only give you
what's been hawked around to other places. But Edi has.
novelties-the sort that are town talk a week later."
"But I can't stand here alone?"
Milada's voice took on a tone of superiority. "Look at
those nice new houses-fine new streets around here, pre-
tend you're apartment-hunting. That's perfectly safe."
Without waiting for further words she disappeared in
the shadow of the furtive houses. She returned in half an
hour, cheerful, with elastic step, waving her hand jovially
at the loitering woman, a familiarity Josephine von
would have repudiated with disgust an hour ago...Well?
Took you long enough."
"It was worth it. Come now." Milada's eyes danced, a
faint aroma of alcohol and musk floated about her. "I had
to sit in on the drinks/' she laughed. "Had good luck.
Edi was even more drunk than usual. Now listen ..•
from the first of the month, for one week, we,ll have a
girl who is the wife of a man who's . . . to . . . be
hanged soonl Just think!"
Josephine gasped. Milada went on gaily. "He killed a
lawyer. They arrested her too, but let her out soon. Edi's
wife took her into her own home when she came out of
prison. Edi's wife's a fine lady, in silks and diamonds, in
an expensive apartment in town. She was up there, and I
settled everything with her. She's to get the five hundred
142 THE RED HOUSE
gulden we must pay herself, not a cent to Edi. And
she did it just because she'd quarreled with Edi before I
came in. Otherwise we wouldn't have had a chance." .
"Five hundred gulden? That's a fortune . . . how dare
you promise?"
"I'll take up that deal with my own money, if you don't
want to, and I'll make a profit on it too." Again Milada
laughed. Josephine dre\v her long thin body erect, and
the home\vard way was walked in silence.
Martha Dubhe left for the hospital without protest
There was something so helpless, so pathetic, in her droop..
ing figure, her sad questing eyes as they sought a last
glance from Milada. The latter felt her heart quiver, but
she had no time for emotion.
Without lvaiting for a word from "Josephine, Milada,
lvith the janitress to help her, set about cleaning and
rearranging the vacated room. She put up fresh curtains,
silken coverlets, brought vases and flower pots, and a
rich store of dainty toilette articles, perfumes, scented
soaps.
By noon, she had finished and called Josephine in to
admire.
"There, it's all ready for Mrs. Birkner."
"I want Gisi to have this room," replied Miss von
Miller, defiantly.
"Gisi's in good spirits again . . . she doesn't need any
extra petting. Things hummed last night, didn't they?"
The other \Voman did not answer. Milada smoothed the
pink silk quilt. "Don't you think it better to give the
coffee free, as Mrs. Goldscheider used to do?' • she re..
marked, lightly. "Old habits are the best. It gives a sort
of social, intimate touch. And we can serve little sand-
wiches with it, at a neat little profit."
"Hm . . . know it all, don•t you?" sneered Josephine.
But she made no protest.
 THE RED HOUSE
l\filada went to the kitchen...Get cold cut and caviar
from the cellar cupboard," she told the cook. "I'm to
make sandwiches. And, listen . . . if Miss von Miller
comes snooping around here you tell her Mrs. Gold..
scheider used to put sardines on her sandwiches, but
Milada is more economical and uses hard boiled eggs,
see?"
"Oh, Miss . . . ain't she just the limit?" wailed the
cook. "She'll ruin this good business if she keeps on.''
"I don't care," said Milada. Then, lVith an air of taking
the stout cook into her confidence, she v.rhispered, ''You
see, I've just had a legacy . . . from my father. He's a
rich landowner. He's dying and his conscience is troubling
him. Don't tell anyone yet . . . I may go into business
for myself."
§2
WHEN Homer came in Milada was going through the
papers and letters she had found hidden in Martha
Dubhe's mattress. She looked up, beaming, as he opened
the door.
.. Horner, I've got this woman just where I want her.
She squirms and wriggles, but she'll not get loose. She
believes the rumors I'm spreading about my legacy, they
all believe it. I'll have the Miller eating out of my hand.
I can--oh . . ." she raised her arms, the slender young
body flexed with agile life.
" . . . put down the bordel-mama from her throne and
set the crown of The Red House on your own head?" he
cut in, mocking.
"Yes, and chase the butterflies of your theories."
"Aha, young soul . . . do not fly too high. You are not
yet out of the chrysalis . . . but you show promise. What
have we here . . . Dubhe's immortality?"
144 THE RED HOUSE
"Yes . . . all that was really hers. Poor soul • . . she
clung to these rags of the past."
"Much loss on this corpse?"
Milada shrugged. "She worked it off . . . what's left
is only figures on which the Miller woman sits and
broods."
"Cause of death?"
"But she's not yet dead?"
"Foolish . . . understand me, please. The woman who
wants to die in this place . . . is already dead."
"Yes . . . it's all here," Milada laid one hand softly
on the little heap of paper. "Good family . . . teacher of
English . . . private lessons in an aristocratic house;
pupil, son of the house, colh;ge student. She was young
. . . very lovely."
"The theme develops per schedule: love . . . honor
. . . innocence . . . despair . . . misery . . . helpless
. . . forsaken . . . all over. . . ."
"Horner, it's so unnatural! None of your books give any
light on this theme. Woman is constructed by nature to
bear children. Why should the scorn of your world out-
side there, and the law's vengeance, fall on her '\Vhen her
strong, matured body fulfills its honest destiny and duty?
It's absurd. Explain it."
"Your query flatters me. I'll ask the nearest patrolman."
"No . . . you shall not put me off. I demand clarity.
Are your laws only for the fortunate, the sheltered? Do all
who are helpless stand without? And go down to destruc-
tion? Must they?"
"We must even help them on the downlvard path, says
our code of honor," he anslvered grimly. "But don't play
on my pity. The mother with her child is not helpless, is
not lost. They are avengers. You will see. Fatherless chil-
dren possess mighty power . . . for good or for evil. If
society realized, they would not let us grow up in free·
 THE RED HOUSE 145
dom . . . as you and I did. They would shut us up in
'articles,' tie laws like muzzles on our jaws. Look around
you . . . scan the lists of great criminals, great con-
querors, the roll of harlotry. All fatherless children. The
state is a bungler . . . a silly market woman like your
Miller here, so greedy for the tiny profit of every day that
the fortune of the future falls from her grasping hand."
He raised one finger pedantically. "Only in the treadmill
of marriage shall the useful, submissive, mild and pious
citizen be begotten. False use of the trade mark 'human
being' is a felony, forbidden by law. What more would you
know, Homunculus?,
She sat for a moment, frowning over the papers. "Yes.
Martha Dubhe lost everything in the one blow-position,
income, protection. The lad who got her into trouble
went for a trip around the world. His father nearly killed
her in anger; his mother wept, wrung her hands, told all
about it . . . all wrong, of course. Only the charwoman
took pity on her, took her in. When her time came, she
had no refuge, no physician. Horner, that poor girl ran
about the street for a day and a night . . . in agony . . .
from one hospital to another, from one Found1ing Asylum
to another. In the hospitals they told her that unmarried
mothers had to come in three months ahead, to help in the
daily work. She stood on the street, alone . . . writhing in
th; pangs . . . A hospital cleaning woman came out, and
made her promise to go into a borde! when it was all over.
Then she took her in, as her own 'cousin,' and they gave
her a bed.''
"Considerate, weren't they?"
"Horner, that poor girl went through trouble enough
later, but nothing ever wiped out the agony of that first
hour in the hospital, the treatment she received, the atti-
tude of doctors and nurses when they asked, 'Married?'
and heard the answer. Then when the baby came it seems
 THE RED HOUSE
they put the child in a tiny bed beside the larger one for
the mother. She couldn't reach down for it . . . \\'as
ashamed to ask for help. She heard its little cry . . . all
night . . . knew it was hungry, starving. Well . . . you
know what she was like here, Horner? Big blow-up every
three months. In between whiles saved every penny, then
blew it all in on silk gowns and champagne. The same old
story. We have no independent will here . . . no security.
We are helpless before any wind that blows . . . illness,
old age, debts, all chains to drag us down. The more we
struggle, the surer we sink."
He looked at her, his eyes sparkling grimly. "It is
possible to pull oneself out of the swamp by one's own
bootstraps.''
Milada paid no heed, went on: "That's why it's so unim-
portant, anything that happens to us. He who has the least
little bit of property in life-just a dash of hope, a dim
goal-he can find the will to action, he builds. We here,
we do not build, we destroy. Ourselves first of all. No,
Horner. I refuse! I will live with conscious purpose. No
matter what happens to me, whatever it be, it shall not
come over me from the outside; it shall come because of
my own wish and purpose. I will not go down to destruc-
tion like the others."
He rubbed his hands, chuckling. "But the Karma, dear
girl, that bad Karma. What shall we do with it?"
"We'll take it by the horns, as we would a mad bull. If
what I do means destruction, at least I have willed to do
it. It is the Fate which I myself have chosen, not a rope
thrown over my neck by society."
Horner sprang up, his face flushed, his lips quivering.
"Victory! Old Homer has not brooded here on this dung-
hill in vain. The stench arises . . . the Sacred Scarabeus
is found . . . is hereJ"
 THE RED HOUSE
He stepped back, bowed deeply, sweeping the ground
with his shabby hat; bowed in deep respect.

§s
MISS JosEPHINE voN MILLER sat in her office reading a
church paper. It was Palm Sunday morning. Her black
lace cap sat very straight on the graying hair, all the
wrinkles and lines of care in her sallow face were ironed
out. She had just come from Mass, had counted up last
night's earnings with fingers still redolent of incense, then
locked the money in the safe with content ih her he_art.
The last few days had shown most satisfactory profit.
This Birkner-the condemned murderer's wife-she
certainly was an attraction. Nothing much to look at of
herself . .. smooth, expressionless face, watery blue eyes
blond braids. All in white they had dressed her, just red
shoes, a red ribbon around her throat. But her story, that
was the attraction. All about the murder. Miss Josephine
had shuddered at first, couldn't listen. Then she grew ac-
customed to it, hearing it every evening. Yes, the woman
told of her affair with the lawyer. But Bobby didn't know
. . . he wanted her to have everything of the best, food,
furniture, clothes, amusements . . . but how could she,
on his small salary? And his old father wouldn't help!
The men were quite crazy about her . . . and so many
new ones that came. They kept coming, half the night,
until the janitress locked the door when the house \Vas
full. Real gentlemen, too. Of course, unless a man could
afford fifty gulden, he'd have to put up with the other
girls. And these other girls had caught the infection of the
new jollity. They danced, and sang, ran through the halls
and rooms like little devils, the men after them, naturally.
There wasn't a bottle of champagne left in the house.
Even though Milada bought and bought, until Miss Fini's
 THE RED HOUSE
gray hair rose on her head. All gone . • . with what a
profit!
Milada had started out at eight this morning, to buy
provisions, wine. And there were five days more of Mrs.
Birkner. This bade fair to be a most wonderful Easter
season!
She bent again over her pious paper, reading about
"Catholic welfare for neglected youth." She read the ani-
cle through, nodded approval, then leaned back comfort-
ably. A huge pile of mail lay before her . . . oh 'veil,
Milada could attend to that. It was really nicer this way
. . . just to have the final decision and let some one else
do the worrying. That Rezek girl had a good head on her.
Miss Fini had her own secret plan. Watch the girl, see how
she does it, then . . . take up the reins herself once more
. . . and . . . out with the tooll Mustn't let her think.
she's indispensable. But six months more of these profits
• . . finel
As a matter of fact, the Miller 'voman 'vas entirely in
Milada's hands. She had lost all contact with the agents,
the purveyors, with the girls and the guests. Milada did
everything, gave orders, planned in the kitchen, did the
purchasing, dealt with agents, with dressmakers . . . the
money alone still lay in the older woman's possession. No
one must touch the sacred cash but she herself. For this
handling of the earnings meant sovereignty . . . to her
mind.
Milada was clever, she hid behind "the Madam" offi-
cially. But not one thing happened in The Red House
except by her orders. Her magic lvords, to bend Josephine
to her \Vill. were always, "That's ho\v Mrs. Goldscheider
did it." The memory of the Goldscheider profits acted
liked a whiplash on Miss Miller's occasional outburst of
silly avarice and ugly stubbornness.
The others, inside the house and out, soon saw through
 THE RED HOUSE 149
the pretence of her authority, and turned to Milada for
everythtng. The machinery of living in The Red House
began to run smoothly once more. Miss Fini would appear
to ponder some proposition, then would say; "Rezek, will
you attend to this? I'm busy." And the wheels turned as
if well oiled.
There carne a change in Milada's relations to the other
girls, as well. The rumor of her "legacy," supported by
occasional \Vell-planted casual remarks of her own, gave
her a ne\v dignity and importance. There \Vere rubs of
course; Mizzi and one or two pals were stubborn, full of
envy. But the more sensible ones realized Milada's fair-
mindedness, her even, just attitude towards them. Her an-
cestry, the memory of her mother Katrine, the fact that
she had not been in debt to Mrs. Goldscheider, won them
all at last.
One or the other would say: "You're a fool . . . doing
all this and losing your earnings," and Gisi, her best friend
among them, suggested that they two set themselves up, in-
dependently, in a wine room for instance. "You're not get-
ting anything here for all your trouble. Bertie'll help us."
But Milada answered, "I've grown up here. I feel sorry
for The Red House. I can't look on and see her ruin it.
That's why I stay."
They understood, and respected her. They all had come
in from elsewhere. It was Milada's only home.

§4
MrLADA's sharp rap sounded on the office door. She came
in, cheeks flushed from the fresh spring wind. "Perfect
nuisance, trying to get things brought here on Sunday/'
she said. "Cost a heap of tips."
She took the mail, ran through the letters. "Miss Jo-
sephine, here's an order ror a big supper tomorrow night.
 THE RED HOUSE
Eight covers. For the Birkner woman, of course. Jockey
Club members . . . to be served from twelve to two.
That'll net a nice profit." She cut open more envelopes.
"They've gone crazy over that woman . . . here's an in..
quiry from half a dozen houses in the Provinces . . . as
if we owned her. That'll have to go back to Edi. Here's an
offer from Ascher. Want to look into it? A widow from St.
Polten . . . Lord, I'm tired." She sat down and took off
her hat.
As she sat there, loosening the hair around her temples,
the decisive conversation began that once and for all
changed her status here in the house, her relations with
the old woman who sat now as if turned to stone, listening.
Milada had an odd feeling, as if all this did not concern
her, as if she were watching the play of some other destiny.
Miss Josephine had been cradled in such security of late,
that the new thought came as a thunder clap from blue
sky. Her decision was won by violence, she used to sa,
later.
"I must talk to you about myself," Milada began.
"What's the matter?" Miss Josephine's high tones held
a note of alarm.
.,Oh nothing . . . only I think I'll go away."
"W-what? What an ideal How dare you?" Then grasp-
ing at a straw of claim, "You're in the books. Any one of
them might come and say, 'I'm going.' Where would I
be?"
"I don't know how you stand with the others. But my
case is different. I am not down in your books. I did not
owe Mrs. Goldscheider a penny. There are some small
sums, for shoes, gowns. I would like to know how much I
owe."
"How much you owe? How much does this place owe
me?" Miss Fini gasped, half sobbing. "Dear Lord . . .
thirty-five thousand gulden . . . and Kessler's commis·
 THE RED HOUSE
siou, and all the rest. Oh, what a fool I've been! What will
the future hold for mel,
"Yes . . . You see I have to think of my future too,.,
Milada continued calmly, paying no attention to the
other's sobs. "I have no one to take care of me later. I
have only myself to look to. I must make something of
myself."
"Make something? Aren't you enough now?"
"What am I, Miss Josephine?" Milada's eyes stabbed.
Miss Josephine squirmed, mentally. She stammered,
"Aren't you comfortable here, Rezek? Haven't I treated
you like . . . like . . ." she choked, went on quickly,
"although the others hated me for it. You'll stay with me,
won't you, Rezek? For my sake?"
"And when you no longer need me? When I'm sick?"
"Sick? Why should you be sick?"
"We all get sick, sooner or later, in this business . .. .
get sick and die."
"Good God . . ."Miss Josephine stared, horrified...And
I've set myself in a business that dies out of itself!"
"Oh, no, Miss Josephine," Milada answered mockingly.
"The business doesn't die . . . only the girls. There are
always new ones to be had . . . fresh young blood."
Miss Josephine choked on a new sob. Her head drooped.
What a business . . . always a struggle . . . never one
moment of certainty. She could not endure it. What a fool
she had been!
"It's time you got in some new material," she heard
Milada's tone of calm decision as from afar off. "It doesn't
do to keep the same set too long. And perhaps it \vould be
better to let me go too. I'm still young and strong, I must
look out for myself. Of course if I'm here too long, they
won't want me anywhere else. But I'm getting tired of this
business myself. I want to do something else. I have
money." A pause in which the Miller eyes widened help-
152 THE RED HOUSE
lessly. . . . "I'm not afraid of work, I could start a shop,
or a wine room, or maybe go on the stage, like Gisi. I
might marry, too, outside there.,
Out of a whirl of torturing thoughts that came with this
first realization of the demands of her new trade, Josephine
von Miller took refuge in reproaches. "Then why did you
come here, in the first place? You didn't have to, you came
of your own free will."
"My mother left me here with Mrs. Goldscheider," re-
plied Milada. Then, feeling that she was speaking for all
who dwelt in this house, "But, no matter lvhat drives us
in, Miss Josephine . . . we need not stay here until we
are thrown aside . . . crushed, broken. If a man works in
a factory, he doesn't have to stay until a machine takes off
his foot, does he? Betlveen I mustJ and I will . . . there is
a door that can be opened. If you believe that door is shut,
you must stay. But I do not believe it, I do not believe
that you or any one else has power to hold me here . . .
or to hold any girl in this house."
The ground beneath Josephine's feet swayed, opening
on an abyss. Milada went on, pitilessly, "I will not even
mention the church institutions where we could lvrite for
some one to take us away . . ." Church institutions? Con..
vents? An idea flared up. . . .
"Listen, Milada," Miss Josephine began, "as true as
there is a God above us, I'll be honest with you now. Stay
by me these few years, only tlvo years, maybe . . . till I
get enough together. Then I'll give the business over to
you . . . as I hope for salvation. I . . . I've applied for
admission to an Order of Lay Sisters, but I need more
money. Then, '\Vhen I go, you can take this place ..•
very cheap . . . maybe . . . for nothing."
Her head drooped into her hands. She had sacrificed all
the earth held of value. To her mind, no further word was
needed.
 THE RED HOUSE 153
"Miss Josephine, I know you mean it all right . . • but
it's too uncertain for me. Who knows what'll happen here
in two years? Better we come to some definite arrangement
right now. I don't want to make trouble for you, I really
would like to help this business along . . . and now, if
you really mean what you said, I'll have that in mind. I'm
able to \vork, honest, and saving. I know this business from
top to bottom. You can't carry on here without just that
sort of knowledge. It would cost you much more to take
in a stranger. If you will keep me on here as housekeeper,
for one fifth of the profits, and no duties in the Salon, then
I'll be glad to stay."
Miss Josephine started. "One fifth?'' she exclaimed in
horror. Milada was ready for the storm. "Of the net
profits?" Miss Josephine gasped.
''My work is worth it," declared Milada firmly. "And
if you go, I have the option, for, as you perhaps know, I
have money. This business can come back, can be just as
good as it \Vas a year ago. Well?" she leaned against the
desk "how about it? If you say yes, you'll see how Milada
Rezek can work."
"One fifth of the net . . ." repeated Josephine, but this
time with a note of triumph. Then, without further delay
she caught at the strong brown hand held out to her. "Yes
. . . and I can be free . . . soon . . . Yes, in God's
name . . . one fifth of the net. Now, Rezek, you're bound
to me body and soul, remember:'
"Under contract, Miss Josephine," laughed Milada,
shaking the proffered hand heartily. "And now you'll see
... now we'll get results! First of all, we'll shake off the
dead wood. Laura must go and Anna Meitner. We'll make
punch for tonight; that's cheaper and they like it. Serve it
at midnight. I'll get a couple of girls from Mme. Spizzari
for the next tlvo or three evenings, we can't get along
154 THE RED HOUSE
without them . . . Aha . . . there's the bell. The food's
arriving."
She opened the door, then looked back. "Miss Josephine,
maybe you'd better let out a hint or two, to the girls. They
know I thought of leaving."
Milada disappeared into the kitchen.

§5
THURSDAY before Easter, Bina Michal asked for a day's
leave. She wanted to go see her family and Cyril,
who had leave from the barracks. And then, "Another
favor, please." She held up a gold piece.
"Send home again?" asked Milada. "You sent a lot last
week.''
"No, but . . . would you buy me something for Cyril?
I don't like to go in the shops, and I don't trust the
others.''
"Very well. Tell me what you want. And anyhow ...
confess. Who is Cyril? A brother?"
"No!" exclaimed Bina proudly. "We're promised." At
Milada's look of surprise, she continued in happy confi.
dence, "He's been with the army a year, and 'cos he's an
only son, with no father, th·e y'lllet him out soon now. In
Autumn we'll be married. And Bina's been saving money,
you bet. His mother's bought us a house . . . and a cow
in the stable already . . . A thousand gulden I've sent
iliem . . . and I'll take more. I don't need no banks; his
mother, she's good."
"Hm . . . but tell me, Bina--does his . . . no ...
does he himself, Cyril, know you are. . . here?"
"Yes. Why, of course. Just when he went to the soldien,
into Hungary, his mother said to my mother-that is, she's
my father's second-she says, send Bina to the city. Fine
 THE RED HOUSE 155
big handsome girl, she can earn something for the house
and the stock."
"What? His mother sent you here, to Mrs. Gold-
scheider?' •
Bina shook her head...No ..... got address from the
peddler who comes into the village Sundays. And my
mother-father's second, she worked as cook in the city-
she said it was a first-class house. And when I sent last
money, she said Cyril was glad and waitin' to get married.
But he's down there, in the forests in Hungary, and can't
,
come to see me.
"Well, that seems all very nice, Bina," said Milada
thoughtfully. "I'll buy you a cane for him. But listen,
Bina, be careful with your money. Even if it is his mother,
you shouldn't give them anything, without a written
paper. "
"Oh, but I went to school with Cyril. And when my
mother died, no one was so good to me as Cyril and his
,
mo th er.
Now that the barriers were down, she chatted on hap-
pily. Cyril would soon be free, and then the wedding.
Milada shook her head. Here's a girl, promised to marry
a man of her village, and walks directly into a borde! as
into some household service from which she could go out
whole and untouched as she went in! Lives here, honestly,
uprightly, with almost a bourgeois decency, earning
money, bringing all the home virtues into the chaos of
harlot life. Thinking all the while of her man, her little
house, work in the fields and the garden, a simple, peace-
able village happiness. Children, too . . . how could she
picture a home without a cradle, baby voices? And all this
to be won for her by the earnings of a life of shame?
Incredible . . . but quite true. That was life. Innumer-
able men had bought the right to her caresses, to her warm
young body . . . the right to rob her strength, her health.
 THE RED HOUSE
But no moment of it penetrated her soul, 'vhere the drealll
of future happiness lay warm and safe.
"If only those at home are honest with herl" thought
Milada. "This Cyril, who never writes." Ah well, peasant
skins are thick, and they may well prefer good red gold to
any such intangible as personal chastity, virginity.

§6
LI'ITLE Fanchon lay in bed. Nothing really the matter.
Just a carbuncle under her arm. She forbade the other
girls to say anything to Miss Josephine or Milada about
it. . . . They might keep her upstairs that evening.
Bina, returned beaming from her day off, sat patiently
by the bedside, listening to Fanchon's tales, and telling of
her own experiences at home, where they all gaped at her
good clothes. Cyril couldn't be there and his mother had
gone to Dobran, to the market. . . . But she was happy,
for there was a letter from his mother, with a pressed
violet from· Cyril.
Two new girls came, to take the places of Mizzi and fat
Annie. Quite a good exchange. Ilonka Arrigazzi, one new
arrival, bade fair to be a future star of The Red House.
She had marvelous clothes and the airs of a great lady. Also
a signed photograph of a stout European potentate. There
was not much truth in the stories she told of her past. But
she looked well and made an impression.
The other new acquisition came more quietly. A pretty
blond girl, Karla Neuern by name, with a frightened
little face. It took her some days to overcome her timidity
in her new surroundings. The agent who sent her said
she was "a very respectable girl, who had never been any-
where but in a wine room." She had little to say about her
past or family connections, insisted that she was quite
alone in the world.
 THE RED HOUSE 157
The bell rang every few minutes as the afternoon
away. Fanchon could not endure it in bed. She peeped out
into the corridor, then cowered on the window seat, to get
a bit of sunlight. She shivered, her breast hurt her, but
she satd nothing.
"Miss Ilonka, you're wanted in the Salon," Miss Jose-
phine's sharp voice shrilled up from the lonrer floor.
"They're making a fuss about her, aren't they?" re-
marked Fanchon sadly.
"Miss Bina . . . in the Salon."
"Mercy, things beginning already?" exclaimed Fanchon,
looking down at her bare legs. "It's Saturday," replied
Bina with philosophic calm, rolling her sewing together.
Fanchon dressed quickly, excitedly. Musit already . . .
yes, the business was picking up. The fuss over the Birkner
woman had brought back many old customers and more
new ones. They greeted Milada cordially in her new dig-
nity as housekeeper. "Goldscheider training," they said
approvingly. She moved about the Salon in her simple
high-necked black silk gown and little lace apron, receiv-
ing the guests, her sharp eyes everywhere. She knew the
type of each customer, she never questioned, service ran
smoothly under her watchful care, the girls were never
permitted any advances or intimacy until the guest had
made his wishes clear.
"You're pretty young girls," she would say to them.
.,You do not need to throw yourselves on any man's neck.
Wait for them to make advances. They come here to you.
And you are not slaves. If you don't like any one, or don't
feel in the mood, stay upstairs."
This little leelvay of human freedom was seldom abused.
The Salon was full, this fresh spring evening, until well
into the night. Ilonka Arrigazzi, in scarlet velvet, sat en-
tertaining a dignified gentleman with graying hair and
diplomatic pointed beard, who listened to her chatter with
 THE RED HOUSE
as much quiet courtesy as he would have sho,vn in the
drawing-room of a lady of the great world. Champagne
had been served, but they were not drinking.
In another corner, under the palms, Gisi was finding
solace for Bertie's sudden departure in the tales of a stout
traveling man, whose pockets rattled promisingly. She did
not care much for him, was plainly spying for something
more amusing. When Fanchon came in, Gisi jumped up,
called her over. "Here's our dear little Fanchon." And
then disappeared.
Two young men sat at a table, chatting eagerly over
black coffee and cigarettes. Gisi halted here, her hand
touched the intelligent brow of the older of the two, caress..
ing his brown curls. "Going to stay here this evening?..
she asked lightly.
''No, Mizzi, we're mourning a lost illusion."
"I'm Gisi," she replied, offended, her head high.
The young man laughed. "What quality have you, Gisi,
that makes it worth while to remember you and name you
aright?''
"1 can be true," Gisi's glance held meaning.
"A badly paid virtue."
"When I like a man, he need not pay me. But you .....
she blazed at him, "you would not be the . . . sort I
like.''
"Why not?" The dark young man smiled up at her
through spectacled, eyes.
"You're too clever." Gisi moved on to another group.
"Good girll What say you to that sibyl, friend?" The
black-haired youth rose, to follow Gisi. Near the door, he
ran into Gus Brenner, student of medicine. "Too late,
Gus, the Birkner lady is no longer here. But come join
us." He went back to his friend. "I say we stay, ho,Y'ever
The coffee is good, and our philosopher here in good
humor.''
 THE RED HOUSE 159
Gisi came into the room again. She stood against a dark
panel, her gold hair gleaming, her pale blue gown like a
well-fitting cloud. Her eyes sought the group at the table,
the young man with brown curls. He sprang up, joined
her, they strolled off.
"Well, Gus, if I know Seidner, we'll finish our evening
a deux,'' said Joszi.
"Would you like coffee?" asked Milada of the new-
comer.
"May I have beer?"
She nodded.
"A bottle of Pilsener then. . . . Did you notice her
eyes?"
"She's quite gorgeous," declared Gus, staring at Ilonka.
"No, I mean the housekeeper, with the brown hair."
"She? She's not even young."
"Hm . . . she has marvelous eyes. They belong under
Egyptian skies, in the face of a dreaming Sphinx."
Milada returned with the beer. Gus looked at her. "Eyes
not sympathetic . . . don't appeal to me," was his categor-
ical judgment, when she had gone. Again he feasted on
the charms of scarlet-clad Ilonka.
The Salon \vas quite full now. The pianist rendered a
march and a stout placid gentleman played the violin with
masterly strokes. "Prize Conservatory pupil," whispered
Joszi. "I know him. He makes more in one evening here
than in a week of playing in aristocratic houses."
Fanchon had disappeared with the traveling man; then
returned and joined a group of well-dressed very young
men, scarcely more than boys, who had just come in and
were taking possession of the best places and the most
popular girls with noisy joviality.
"Apaches of the drawing-room, Gus," said Joszi, frown-
ing. "I retreat. I have no use for that sort of rabble."
Gus drank his beer slowly, staring around him with an
160 THE RED HOUSE
assumed contempt which betrayed the novice. Joszi mur.
mured oaths and unfavorable comments on the group of
boys. The latter were drinking heavily now and begin.
ning to treat the girls with real brutality. One especially,
a slender pale-faced lad with quivering lips, eyes shining
from alcohol. When he gave his order he flung the money
down on the table, and kicked and scolded like a bad.
tempered child whenever Putzi, on whose breast he had
laid his head, tried to escape.
"Dirty floor-where can I put my shoes?" he shouted.
"Aren't they the swell shoes?" He raised one small foot,
drunkenly proud of it. "Who'll find a place for my shoes?..
Left-side Anna opened her arms. "Put them here?"
"Hey . . . that's an idea . . . my shoes on your breast
. . . come to my heart-her heart, I mean-little feet.
Girl, I'll pay you well for that."
"And my good silk dress? No, boy, you haven't money
enough for that." Anna laughed and turned away. But
Bina, dead serious, pinned a napkin across the of her
bodice and raised the boy's legs.
"Leggol" he yelled...1 don't like you."
Gisi, her gold hair loosened and wreathed, returned to
the students. "Fair maiden, have you a rake in this
palace?'' asked Joszi in cold scorn, staring at the drunken
boys.
"Never mind them. Why haven't you here be-
fore?, said Gisi softly, bending over him. "Oh . . . you
have a girl already?, She touched a heart-shaped stone on
his finger.
"Fair one, that pack there annoy me . . . and then I
am no good at all. Toss vitriol in that lad's face and may-
hap I will write a poem to your lovely eyes."
"Oh . . . our Madam would hate you. She just loves
that little pig-beast, that Menzel. But you might write the
poem just the same."
 THE RED HOUSE
"Is that your Madam?"
"Oh no, I mean the old lady. That's Milada."
"That her name? Good . . . it suits her . . . her eyes
. . . her name . . . torn purple . . . a throne sinking
into mire. Say, Gus," suddenly he laughed, "he's a nasty
little beast but he has a sense of humor."
From somewhere the Menzel boy had found a crown
of silver paper and put it on his head. The music turned
to a cake-walk, Fanchon caught up her red silk skirt and
swayed in rhythm. She was carelessly rouged, red spots
Hung down anyhow on cheek and forehead, giving her
smiling face the look of a grimaced mask.
"Mirror thyself in my shoes, Salome; let their gleam
reflect thy fair face," declared Menzel, raising first one
foot, then the other.
"Offal!" hissed Joszi.
"Be quiet, Johannesl" growled Menzel. The other boys
shook with laughter. "Menzel, you're delicious tonight."
?vlenzel pressed his head against Putzi's breast, and swung
both feet onto Fanchon's shoulders.
"Check! I'm going." Joszi rose.
"Still, 1ohannes . . . down . . . your head falls soon."
The beautiful Ilonka and her aristocratic companion
slipped from the room.
"Fanchon," called Miss 1osephine's sharp voice.
"Let me go . . . boy . . . let me go, I say." She pushed
one foot down from her neck, but Menzel,
completely intoxicated, pushed it back brutally. Suddenly
a sharp scream of pain shrilled above all the other noise.
"Hello," exclaimed Gus Brenner. "Something wrong
there."
•'I'll kill that beast!, shouted Joszi, forcing his way
through the cluster of young folks.
Menzel stood on both feet now, looking down stupidly,
without comprehension, on Fanchon who lay writhing iD
 THE RED HOUSE
pain. "Wha's . . . wha's . . . a mazzer?" Other groups
left their places, crowding in to the excited center.
"J oszi, come help." Gus Brenner's voice rose clear and
clean in the sudden stillness. Milada knelt beside Fanchon,
raising the girl's head. Her face was ghastly, her s'veet
mouth tortured in agony. The young doctor knelt beside
them, laid his blond head on the heaving breast.
"Has the girl been ill?" he asked.
"No, she's drunk," replied Josephine von Miller acidly.
Milada turned to two of the girls, who were whispering
to one another. "Do you know anything about this?"
"She's been fussing with a bad abscess over a week. He
kicked her . . . must have opened it."
Gus suppressed an oath. He turned to Milada. "Take
hold here," he commanded. "I'm a physician." The un-
conscious girl's head rested on his breast, Milada held
her feet.
"What . . . my beautiful patent-leather shoes hurt any-
body?" Menzel laughed stupidly, stared around. When his
eyes returned to focus Joszi stood in front of him, glaring
fire, his fingers snapping in challenge.
"If you were anything but a drunken schoolboy, I'd
. . . give you what you deserve. But as it is . . ." sud-
denly a mocking smile broadened his lips. "Nice shoes you
have on . . . yes . . . but I know how they'd look bet-
ter." Before the dazed Menzel could move, Joszi's heavy
walking boots descended twice, with full strength, upon
the younger lad's shining footgear.
"Anybody wants me . . . here's my address. Joszi Wall·
ner." He threw down a card and sauntered out.

§7
FANCHON regained consciousness in her own room. She
gazed around horrified. "No . . . no, there's nothing the
 THE RED HOUSE
matter with m e, nothing," she answered to all Gus'
.
quesuons.
"Now be sensible, Fanni," soothed Milada. "The doctor
will help you. Lamberg would send you to the hospital
right away . . . and be so brutal besides. Now do as the
kind doctor tells you."
Fanchon raised her arm. Gus whistled lightly at the
sight; ugly neglected broken abscess, the arm swollen and
tender down to the wrist. Carefully, skillfully he washed
the wound, opened it fully, drew off the pus, and praised
Fanchon for her courage in keeping so quiet. "It hurt a
lot worse before," she murmured. Milada brought lysol,
gauze, bandages. She was a quick-witted skillful assistant,
doing th«: right thing at the right moment. Gus looked at
her keenly once or twice. She showed no signs of weak-
ness or timidity, carried out his orders swiftly, supported
Fanchon, soothed her with gentle murmurs. When again
she laid the sick girl's head on the pillow, and stroked her
hair, Fanchon suddenly realized that she lay there almost
naked. With a quick gesture she drew up the silken
coverlet.
It was an odd gesture, doubly strange in such surround-
ings. The young man's eyes, surprised, uncertain, met
Milada's . . . in their gray depths an anxious query. "You
are laughing at us? At her . . . at this little movement?"
The unuttered thought sent the blood to his fair cheeks.
He tore his eyes from hers with an effort, and walked very
erect to the wash stand. Here, just as he had seen his pro-
fessors do in the clinic, he washed his hands carefully,
giving final orders the while.
uYou must keep that arm quiet, understand. Better lie
still for two or three days. If you give it care now, it's all
over soon, otherwise it'll drag on for weeks. See that she
does not eat sour things," he turned to Milada, so full of
the importance of his role that he forgot the actuality and
 THE RED HOUSE
the character of the place. "You are an ex<,ellent . . ."
He was about to say uassistant," but the gleam of grati-
tude, timid yet shot through with pride, that shone from
her gray eyes full into his, brought him to himself, to a
sense of the situation, and to a flood of embarrassment.
"Then I mayn't go down?" questioned Fanni, worried.
Milada's head drooped, she spoke with underscored
politeness. you care to go back to the Salon,
Doctor? We thank you very much for your trouble."
The pitiless comedy of it struck Gus now. Here he was,
playing the heavy medical professional in a brothel, giv-
ing advice, ordering quiet for the patient. What asininity!
Gus Brenner never could rise superior to situations that
brought embarrassment. He realized them, and they mas-
tered him. He threw a shy glance at Fanni, pale and wor-
ried on her pillow; another at Milada, and shove ·s
way through the door. In the corridor, still at odds with
himself, oppressed by some feeling he did not understand,
he sought coat and hat. Milada brought both. She was
scarcely conscious herself of the excitement that glo\ved in
her; her brown cheeks were flushed and her capable hands
trembled as she held the coat for him.
His own thoughts were clear. "Joszi and Seidner will
have a fine laugh at my latest Good Samaritan role." Once
before he had taken in a tiny shivering boy from the cold
night street, only to find the urchin gone next morning,
with his own watch and pursel Gus Brenner disliked any
happening that put him in a bad light, either in the eyes
of his comrades or in his own. So now he hid behind a
curt professional tone. "Show it to your own physician.
The trouble's been neglected, she needs treatment."
"Then you'll . . . not . . . come again?" The sup-
pressed pleading that quivered in her tone softened his
hurt young pride.
"I don't want to butt in on Lamberg's business."
 THE RED HOUSE
•coh . . . Lamberg. He does not care. There is so much
.. need of help here. Perhaps . . . you will come
. . . . .''
agatn
Thoughtfully, struggling with mingled emotions, Gus
strolled down the street towards the cafe where, as he
knew, his two friends awaited him. He did not feel like
joining them, but hardly dared not to. Best throw it all off
as if it were nothing, or just jest over the happenings of
the evening. That is, he would say nothing of . . . that
little gesture, the drawing up of the coverlet . . . the shy,
timid . . . modesty . . . yes, modesty} in Fanchon's eyes
. . . a girl in a brothel . . . and that other . . . no, bet-
ter not tell them, they might not understand. He took
their teasing, their advice about "that sort of girl," with a
good nature that was largely his own self, and yet partly
his new sense of uncertainty, of sudden doubt as to the
standards of a lifetime.

§8
THE following afternoon Gus Brenner rang the bell of
The Red House door. Oh . . . no mistake, please! He was
all reserve, duty, calm decision. He had found himself
. . . it was all so foolish, was it not? His chance presence in
that house, the accident, the cool young housekeeper. Why
should he not help? All very ordinary. Fanchon was prob-
ably cold, shivering from pain, so she pulled up the cover-
let . . . all quite ordinary and natural. And that other
girl, the housekeeper, with the pseudo-training, anxious to
save Lamberg's fee, of course. Apparently a capable
person.
It was a very poised young man, sure of himself, who
rang the bell. The maid who opened the door asked if he
wished to see any particular lady. His answer was curt. He
came to see the girl who was hurt yesterday. The maid
 .
t66 THE RED HOUSE
looked doubtful. "One moment, please." She knocked at
the office door. Miss Josephine came out, saw the visitor,
was all sudden smiles. She had been informed that the
blond young medical student, Gus Brenner, " ·as the only
son of the millionaire manufacturer of that name, and her
business sense rejoiced at the evident interest shown in her
establishment by so promising a patron.
"Oh, Doctor! How very kind of you . . . we are so
grateful." She pressed a button. "Miss Milada will take
you up."
He mounted the stairs, Milada came to meet him in
the corridor. "Oh . . . I am glad." She sighed, with evi-
dent relief.
"How goes it?"
"She moaned all night." Milada helped him out of his
coat. "And she has fever now."
"Lamberg been here?" Gus was surprised at his distaste
for the thought.
"No . . . he wouldn't bother. I . . . I took her tem..
perature myself."
"You? Oh . . ."Again the tongue-tying embarrassment.
Her face seemed different today . . . odd, appealing ...
the gray glance was a tangible barrier. "Where is she?"
Milada led the way to Fanchon's room. Gus armed him-
self with professional dignity, with the condescending
joviality of the successful practitioner.
Fanni lay in bed, pale, frowning, her long blond hair
neatly braided, on the pillow. A tall heavy-built girl with
direct clear eyes, who sat beside her, rose at the opening
of the door. "Stay here," murmured Fanni.
"I'll come back. . . ."
"But he'll hurt me."
Bina stroked the seeking hand, then laid it back on the
coverlet. "Nonsense . . . he's a kind gentleman." She
bobbed in an awkward curtsy.
 THE RED HOUSE
The homage did Gus good. His tone lvas friendly. "Well
. . . how goes it?" He raised the arm. "Hm . . . new
abscesses forming all over it. We'll nip those in the bud."
He treated the wound, bound it up again, so skillfully
and quickly that Fanni found no time for moans or com-
plaints. "You do this mighty well." He turned to Milada,
who had seconded him as before. "Makes us doctori seem
superfluous." Her warm glance thanked him, his own eyes
dl;ooped before it. She's probably been nurse in a clinic
. . . before she came here, he thought. Then turned to
Fanni, who seemed to feel herself neglected. "I'll write
you a prescription, and a diet schedule." He looked
around for a desk.
"If you will come to my room . . ." said Milada. He
nodded. There was no sign of writing materials in this
perfumed bower.
He looked around with new surprise at the small neat
room into which she led him. A well-equipped if small
desk stood between the windo,vs. There was none of the
heavy scented air which had oppressed him as he bent over
Fanni's bed. One window stood open here and the sharp
air of a damp foggy day swirled in. It was a sensible,
prosaic room, reminding him of many a student den, ex-
cept for the absence of disorder, colored ribbons and
pipes. Order reigned here, cool, quieting. She laid pens
and paper ready, he sat down at the desk, gave final orders.
He spoke back over his shoulder, while his eyes followed
the titles of a row of books on the dressing table. These
titles upset him more than had the mysteries of Fanni's
bower. Marx, Bebel, Fournier ... the names ran together
giddily. "\Vho was this woman? Was this just a new
and rather original method for the man-hunt? He rose
brusquely. A long, sad, hopeless, but comprehending
glance met him. Her lips parted, but she did not speak.
Her head drooped until he saw only the heavy red-brown
168 THE RED HOUSE
braids. He sought some oral bridge, some short word of
farewell that might not seem too harsh.
She raised her head, spoke slowly, simply, with no touch
of pathos, weighing the words. "How good you are."
"A good sort, eh? Polite way of saying stupid?" Now he
was brusque. "Where did you train? What hospital?"
"Hospital? Oh, no . . . I was never a nurse."
"Didn't steal a lesson now and then?"
"I've never been out of this street," she answered
simply. "I was born here . . . it is about all I know of
the world.''
"Not really?" Astounded, his eyes sought the books
.
agcun.
"A friend-a gifted teacher-has been helping me for
some years. I . . . I was so hopeless, had given myself up,
till Horner came. Perhaps you know him? Horner, High
School teacher."
Unheeding the question, he broke loose. "How can you
endure it here, with your intelligence? How can any
human being who has imbibed that," with a hand-sweep
towards the books, "live on in these surroundings?,.
"I am needed here," she replied softly.
"You . . . are part-owner?"
"No."
"Have you . . ." he choked, coughed, "any duties • • •
here? And. . . ?"
"Not now."
Anger caught at his throat. "That's shameful . . . that's
a thousand times worse . . ." Blinded, protesting, he
sought the door.
"Will you come tomorrow?" Milada did not move from
her place.
His blue eyes darkened, he chewed at his little
mustache. "As long as I began this asininity. . . ."
Milada's face showed emotion. He must not go . . • not
 THE RED HOUSE t6g
like this. He must look at her just once more, before he
went out.
"May Fanni get up?" she caught at any words. But it
struck fire. He wheeled, looked down scornfully. "Wor-
ried business woman, eh?"
"What's your objection to the business?" she retorted.
"I despise the . . . making money on these poor
creatures . "
"Do you know that many of these poor creatures, Fanni
too, were on the very verge of utter starvation before they
. . . took up this business? That they would have gone
down to a miserable death, had they not found refuge
here . . . shelter from the worst."
"And here? Do they not find destruction here too?" he
asked.
"Yes . . ." Her tone was very grave now. "Yes ..•
they sink to the depths, even here."
"And to help them to it . . . seems a good business?"
"You would make the business responsible?" She shook
her head. "This business is but the answer to a demand
... an insistent demand that calls aloud through all our
streets."
"Life demands sacrifice . . . but here it is a case of the
moral responsibility of the individual." He was very pro-
fessorial now, as he pulled on his overcoat.
"Sad . . . but hunger and despair are so much stronger
than moral responsibility."
"Hunger, despair? I know that song . . . but when
they are fed, can they not shake off the chains? You, for
instance?"
"Some souls are destined to bear chains, ahvays."
"Silver chains." His laugh did not sound as natural as he
wished. He hurried down the stairs and out.
This last mood endured through the day, his soul the
prey of conflicting emotion. But in the night quiet the
 THE RED HOUSE
whirling sensations gathered into one focus of expectation,
uniting fancied superiority, wavering decision. Before
dropping into the oblivion of sleep, Gus Brenner mur-
mured:
"I shall see her again . . . tomorrow."

§g
Gus BRENNER, blond young student of medicine, came
day after day to The Red House. Fanchon's wound healed
easily, but she rather enjoyed having him fuss over her,
sympathize with her, scold her. He himself lost the sense of
strangeness that had embarrassed him at first, once he
came to be part of the daily life of the dwellers in that
house. He dropped his assumed irony and air of superior-
ity, his armor in moments of uncertainty. With greater
ease, his naturally amiable nature came into its own.
Throughout his childhood years, a woman's caprices
and hostile influences of all sorts had driven Gus Brenner
into soli tude of soul. His student years were dominated by
his older comrades; Joszi's worldly wisdom, Seidner's Jew-
ish dialectics made Gus, a spoiled mother's darling, feel
very young and helpless. And yet within his soul there
slumbered the will to mastery, should opportunity arise.
Here in Red House came opportunity. The girls
accepted his eight college semesters as sufficient diploma,
hung on his 'vords, brought all their little troubles to him,
bowed to his authority. He dictated, prescribed, cautiously,
giving nothing that any educated layman might not have
suggested. And his secret delight in the authority accorded
him freely by every inmate of The Red House from Miss
Josephine down to the janitress, really did have an admix-
ture of a true desire to help. It was a flattering ideal ...
the son of a patrician house giving himself freely to the
service of the disinherited, the outcast!
 THE RED HOUSE
Christian missionaries go into the heart of Africa and
are happy if they save a felv pagan souls. Why should not
one of us, he thought, step down from his sphere of
bourgeois security into the Sahara of prostitution?
He did not tell his friends of this new path to Golgotha
which he trod daily, head held high. He feared his new-
born heroism might not stand up before Joszi's mocking
laughter, David Seidner's satire.
It was a pleasant, well-paved road to Calvary. The
moment he entered the door the girls ran to meet him,
his visits became a welcome break in the monotony of
their existence. Before he realized it, he began to feel quite
at home. He chatted with the girls, told stories of his col-
lege days, brought all the gossip of the quarter or the city
beyond, giving the girls stuff for many a long confab in
their rooms.
Gus brought the breath of wholesome life into The Red
House. So much hidden joyousness, young mischief, merry
lvit, came to the surface now, rising through the black
,vater of crushed womanhood. He was surprised to find
the girls so little cynical or aggressive. They laughed like
happy children when they could draw him into the orbit
of some little prank, some childish trick. He was too
modest to attribute this new breath of young innocent fun
that ruled The Red House during his presence there to any
quality of his own. And yet it was he, this likeable young
man with shining blue eyes and strong, warm, helpful
hands, lvho had brought about the miracle. From his over-
refined nervous unbalanced mother he had inherited an
enthusiastic love of beauty, but a shuddering dislike of any
brutal carnality, any ecstasy of lust. His senses held no
mastery over his mind or heart.
He admired beautiful Ilonka Arrigazzi, but his eyes did
not waver when she lay naked in bed before him, com-
plaining of rheumatism. He massaged the aching shoulder,
 THE RED HOUSE
and covered it carefully. "Best to keep it warm," he said
calmly. It was the man's inner purity and simple candor
which dragged all these woman-souls up from the mire
to a respite of innocent gayety.
He chatted with Gisi in French, a language he had
always spoken with his mother. Quiet Karla thawed out,
her eyes shone when he praised the beauties of the Giant
Mountains, her home land. Fanchon insisted that he must
know some of her painter friends, and must tell them
of her.
Intellectual stepping-stone between his earlier self..
complacency and these whom his middle-clas&
morality would have cast into outer darkness, was the
housekeeper, this odd woman whom he still could not
place anywhere, this Milada Rezek with the eyes of a
Sphinx dreaming unutterable secrets under Egyptian
skies. . . .
Her cold, reserved intelligence, lacking all womanish
coquetry, fascinated him; while the unshaken security of
her being, the harshness with which she engirdled and
defended her orbit, repelled him each day anew and irri-
tated his inherited class prejudice. Still, slowly, step by
step, he came nearer to her realities. She stung hi$ curios..
i ty, she aroused his pity, she told him of the others and
their path of thorns; she knit together touching and re-
pellent pictures into a complete lvhole; she revealed to
him the unseen social driving-forces beneath the tragedies
of vice. And at the last she dowered him with the joy of
feeling himself a pathfinder, a discoverer in this Sahara
of Fate.
"She is extraordinarily interesting; she fascinates me,"
he said to himself. "So must Zola have been drawn by
Germaine and Nana. Joszi would be enthusiastic about
her, I know."
All of which was a sort of justification for the need to
 THE RED HOUSE
sink himself daily in the luminous depths of her eyes.
''She does not appeal to my senses, I could quite forget
that she is a woman. She is a problem, nothing more." He
held this idea firmly before his mental vision, each day.
But even the others . . . it would never have occurred
to any of the girls to suggest that he come to the Salon
during the evening. The most innately wanton of them
never permitted themselves any offensive intimacy, any
iroportuni ties.
Milada told him once that she would rather he did not
meet Horner there. Neither had known of the other's
visits. Her own justification was that Gus did not really
come to see her, and Horner might misunderstand his
position. Even Milada, in these days of roseate happiness,
made use of recurring ifs and buts that were quite foreign
to her simple clarity of soul.
Gus answered, when she told him that it might be un-
pleasant for him to meet Horner there, "Unpleasant? I
believe you. But unpleasant for him. He has the utmost
respect for any chap with biceps. Didn't you know that?
It's notorious. Just mention Joszi, casually . . . you'll
,
see.
"I'll be careful not to!" laughed Milada.
Homer was passing through another of his periods of
restless discontent; she knew that he could not endure the
impact of anything new, or unexpected. And it was such
joy to keep all these wonderful new thoughts and sen-
sations locked up in her own heart. . . .
Then a bomb burst, tearing the idyl apart. Putzi Bleier,
who had been enjoying her fancied aches and pains and
the attentions of the good-looking young doctor, became
seriously ill.
Her own forced merriment, Gus Brenner's treatment,
even Miss Josephine von Miller's anger were powerless
to check the fever that shook her. "She's anemic, under-
 THE RED HOUSE
nourished . . . I can't find any especial organic trouble.
Feed her well . . . and keep her in bed."
This last was addressed to Miss Josephine, already grow..
ing restive under the "doctoring" in her house. She smiled
at him, but when his back was turned, she broke loose.
Putzi shivered under the storm of invective. She was a lazy
liar . . . a cheat . . . if she liked being sick she could go
to the hospital, and as for this 'doctor'-if he came in
again, she'd throw him out. . . . Putzi crawled out of bed
and down into the drawing-room, only to be sent up again
by Milada, who smiled scornfully at Miss Josephine•s
wrath.
Next day Dr. Lamberg came, diagnosed the trouble as
typhoid, used profanity, ordered Putzi sent to the hospital
at once, and her room and belongings disinfected.
Milada went to the hospital to arrange for the new
patient and had no time for Fanchon, wildly wrathy
because she too was to be examined. Dr. Lamberg said
he'd already had his suspicions . . . better send her away,
tuberculosis is no child's play.
Another outbreak from Josephine von Miller, when the
doctor had gone. Now we see . . . this is what comes of
letting unripe students in here, fussing over the girls. One
down with typhoid, another with tuberculosis. . . . Of
course . . . he probably came direct from the clinic or
the morgue, bringing all sorts of germs. . . .
Fanchon sat cupping a drawn childish face in thin
hands. "Must I go? I know . . . I'll die." Miss Josephine
talked on, a bit repentant now, but Fanni sat unheeding.
The Miller woman went back to her office.
Milada returned, was met with the news that Fanni
must go. "Probably to Mother Zimmermann, she's short
two or three:·
"She's locked herself in her room," said Bina, anxious
at the keyhole.
 THE RED HOUSE
"I'm glad I didn't have that guy do much curing around
Jlle," declared Ilonka. "Who knows what he'd given me."
"What's all this nonsense?, Milada's voice was sharp.
"Don't you talk,'' Ilonka snarled, drawing herself erect.
''That dirty student of yours brought all these diseases
into the house."
Milada turned away scornfully. But she was worried. Is
this the way they talked of him . . . who had come to
help them? Must everything that entered this house be
dragged in the mire? It was all so unexpected; she must
have time to collect her thoughts, to fight for control.
She went down to the office. Gisi, whom she liked better
than any of the girls, ran after her. "Oh, Mila, I'm so
afraid. Why did he do that?"
"Gisi . . . surely you don't believe . . . that silly
talk?"
"Oh, yes . . . my mother was in a hospital in Cracow,
and they stuck something into her arm, and then she got
a lot. ,,of red spots all over her, and blisters, just like
Putzi.
Milada halted, angry now. "Go to the devil, all of you!
Are you all mad? Why should Dr. Gus bring sickness in
here? I want to know who started that talk."
"Why . . . he's studying and wants to learn things, and
then · . . . I suppose he thinks . . . the sort of girls we
,
are. . . .
Milada, pale, shaken, sat down at her desk. Is this how
they requited his kindness, his efforts to help? But he
would understand, he must, he '\Vas so strong, so assured.
She raised her eyes as if she felt his glance on her, warm,
soothing, reassuring. We will do what is necessary, will
we not?
We . . . suddenly her dreams split asunder. Whither
had they led her? Gus is a stranger to her, can never be
aught else . . . he would go away now and never come
 THE RED HOUSE
back. And yet . . . now she realized that in all her
dreams, in all she felt, and hoped, and wished, all aim and
purpose in life, she had seen this man at her side . . .
felt he would understand. "We must do something for
Fanchon, Gus . . . we must not let her get into Mother
Zimmermann's hands." And in her vision she told him the
story of the undernourished proletarian child who had
never eaten meat until she gave her young body to a work..
man behind a pile of bricks--"for a couple of frankfurters
with lots of juice."
The door bell rang. Milada glanced at the clock . . .
his hour. She hurried out, and drew him into the office,
with scarcely a greeting. She was still in hat and coat, just
as she had come from the hospital.
"Doctor . . . just think . . . Putzi has typhoid. We've
sent her to the hospital." He nodded. "She was in delirium
all night, then Lamberg came and sent her off."
"Surely, that is best. Are they disinfecting the room?..
"Yes. But, Doctor, Fanchon must go, too. Lamberg says
she has tuberculosis, and Miss von Miller won't keep her.''
"Hm . . ." He seemed annoyed over her manner of
telling the news. He stood silent, twirling his mustache.
"I do so \vant to help her," Milada went on, low now,
and ashamed, upset. "They told her what the matter was,
and that . . . she would die.,
"Who told her that?" he jerked out.
"Miss Josephine, and Lamberg."
"That's indecent," his annoyance found vent, coming as
relief to them both. "How dare any physician do such a
thing? Of course it was clearly tuberculosis . . . but to
tell her, to her face . . . That poor little girll" He paced
the room angrily. "Well . . . what'll they do with her
now?''
She answered, "Come here . . . to the window. Look
. . . over the street . . . those curtained ground floot
 THE RED HOUSE
windows. Mrs. Zimmermann lives there. She takes . . .
girls like Fanchon, keeps them or sells them further. It
isn't really so bad there, though the girls are like prison-
ers, never get out into the air, just for a drive now and
then. But she knows comers . . . holes . . . oh so evil
. . . where they disappear finally . . . damaged goodS
like little Fanni . . . and I want to save her from that
fate.''
He still paced the room. uDoes she owe much money
here?" The door opened, Josephine von Miller's long
figure twisted i tsel£ into the office. She bowed coldly to
Gus, who scarcely noticed her .
"Miss Milada," she spoke with dignity. "Mrs. Zimmer-
mann wishes to see the account. Fanni. . . ."
Gus cut in, planting himself broad and determined in
her path. "Fanni goes to the hospital, understand?"
"And who pays?" asked Josephine with irony. "That
costs money, young sir. And I do not want her in my house
nolv." She glared at him like an angry cat, undecided as to
her method of attack.
"If the girl comes out of the hospital she can go back
to her family. She must have relatives somewhere."
"She has no home," said Milada softly.
"She owes me a lot of money," continued Josephine. "I
do not want to lose it. But of course, if you're so inter-
. . . .''
ested, s1r.
"You'll not lose." Milada's eyes were warm with thanks.
To her, his eyes said silently, "I'll help."
Josephine von Miller squirmed in helpless uncertainty.
"But I must know, Doctor. Fanni is very popular. Milada
knows the accounts . . . Fanni owes five hundred gul-
den . . ." She paused for effect, saw him start at the
amount. "I'm not strong . . . and no longer young. Mil-
ada knows. . . .''
 THE RED HOUSE
"Miss von Miller is a bit nervous." Milacla threw in the
words casually.
"I'm sick . . . I,m very sick,', Josephine wailed. She
felt she should throw this impertinent, interfering young
man out. But she lacked courage. "I need rest and care.
I'm losing my money, my health here, no one cares about
me ...
"Take daily hot baths and warm packs,'' cut in Gus. But
she put out both hands in terrified protest. "No . . . no
. . . don't touch me., She beat a hasty retreat. Milada
could not resist a smile.
"What an impossible person . . . hysterical . . . abso-
lutely."'
she's quite impossible," replied Milada politely.
"Well, what are we going to do about that girl, Milada?"
It was the first time he had called her by that name. Tears
welled up, she turned to conceal them. "Hasn't she some
aunt or somebody, in the country? One year in fresh air,
plenty of milk, rest . . . and she,s saved . . . for a while
anyway."
"She's just seventeen," murmured Milada.
"Seventeen? My God . . . and there's no protection for
a child like that? Just thrown out on the street. Oh . . .
shameI" In a flash he was aware of an incredibly cruel
responsibility thrown by the social class to which he be-
longed onto the shoulders of weakened, broken children.
Milada moved towards him, firm now, certain. "Dr.
Brenner, it is not merely a matter of money. I could raise
the money, I am not poor . . . but I need some one to
help me . . . some one who can find the way. Wherever
I tum, I meet with scorn, contempt. We have our free
hospital wards, our doctors, our police protection and our
good earnings . .. but there ends our right. Even if I
wish only to save a few poor years of life for little Fannij
 THE RED HOUSE
I cannot do it without the law, the institutions, the
benevolence . . . of your world." ·
He stared at her. "Strange woman . . . tell me," his
voice was boyish, uncontrolled, "why must you live here?
Explain it." He took her ann, the touch shook her, she
stood frozen. "Have you no other interests in life, Milada,
but all this misery?"
For the first time in her life a man's touch shook her.
A strange, unknown intoxication pierced her senses, toss-
ing like loose straw all the energy, the strength for which
she had fought so long. For a moment she lost conscious-
ness of realities around her . . . this street, The Red
}louse . . . Fanchon . . . all so far, far away. Only he
... he stood there and pressed her arm . . . all Life
held its breath.
"I . . . belong in this misery," she spoke with difficulty,
in smothered tone.
"Very well, I will help you." He was harsh again, and
moved away. "Fanni shall not go to that house . . . over
there. She shall be saved if it is possible. My father has
endowed a Home for Consumptives. There are free beds
there. She shall have one. Are you satisfied?"
She drew a deep breath. Her gray glance fluttered past
him, out into Red House Lane. "If only Fanchon con-
sents. She is so frightened. She dreads the unknown as we
all do . . . here."
"She trusts me, I think. I'll attend to her. You pacify the
Miller woman." He laughed, but it was no longer the
carefree boy laughter.
Fanni lay in bed, absorbed in twisting the little curls
that framed her face. Her eyes were still red and swollen,
but her lips parted in the artificial self-satisfied smile she
kept for her gayer moods. When Milada and Gus entered
the room, the smile faded before a hint of fear.
•
180 THE RED HOUSE
"Well, Fanni, how goes it?" Gus took on the jovial tone
of the family practitioner.
"Our Dr. Lamberg did not like the look of things.''
Fanni was quite the fine lady.
"Well. of course you know your lungs need attention.''
"Nonsense/' she cut in hastily. "Mother Zimmermann
says girls like me can live to eighty."
"Mrs. Zimmermann was here?" exclaimed Milada.
"Sure and she "
"She's a silly old woman," reproved Gus. "But this time
she spoke the truth. If you're sensible you can live to
eighty. Milada and I have arranged for you to go to a
Home in the country."
The scene that followed was painful. Fanchon screamed,
protested with hands and feet, accused them of "framing
her . . . blackening her name." Threatened them with
the police . . . sprang out of bed, came at them with
blazing eyes. Gus stood dumbfounded, silent, staring at the
little fury with incredulous eyes. Finally Milada's energy
subdued the girl. At a harsh command she crept into bed
like a beaten dog, but fired one last shot. "Yes, I know
you . . . you and your sweetie there. . . ." ·
The door of the room opened and closed crisply. Mil..
ada did not look towards it . . . she stood crushed. She
wanted to run after him to explain, but she could not
move. He was going . . . had gone . . . he would not
come back . . . it was all over. Milada paid no further
heed to Fanchon, shivering under the covers. With the
unseeing eyes of a sleep-walker she left the room, went
down the corridor to the office. His hat and coat were not
there. Only his cane, with the student insignia on its
handle, leaned in a corner, forgotten. His going had been
a flight.
• • •
 THE RED HOUSE
Dear Dr. Brenner:
It took a week to get up courage to write this letter.
When the doorbell rang; at the usual hour . . . each
time I hoped it might be you. Then . . . a week passed,
I knew you would not come again. Is this true? Are you
so angry at that terrified hounded child who clings to
the miserable life she does know rather than exchange it
for the Unknown, however promising? Even did it
mean health and happiness, she still would fear to give
up the daily bread she now eats. We in the Red House
soon lose faith in our Star.
And now I ask myself, these two weeks since your
going: can this one experience dull your pleasure in
doing good?
May I tell you something? Recently, I tried to play
on Gisi's zither. Just as the tones began to come out, I
felt a sharp pain in the thumb that pulled the strings.
It hurt so, I stopped playing. A blister can1e. And Gisi
said: "You must keep on playing, or else you will never
get the callous spots that are necessary if you really want
to make music. You have to destroy the sensitive skin:·
If that old wooden box makes such demands on us,
ho\v much more the wish to bring melody from the
dumbed and dulled human soul? Should not our all-too-
tender humanitarianism clothe itself in that hardened
skin that it may not feel the little irking pricks? For-
give me, if this sounds as though I would preach to you.
That is farthest from my thoughts. I myself have never
needed some link with the realities of life as much as
I do now. I am afraid . . . it seems all slipping from my
hands. Even Fanni. I can hold nothing, no one. Horner
is master of the Theory. But when I hold out my hand
:tnd plead, "Lead me to a Fact," he cannot.
Fanni goes to the Zimmermann house. All I could
get from her was a promise not to leave this street with·
 THE RED HOUSE
out telling me. Her little remainder of life will go down
to nothingness here. There may come a time when I can
again beg for aid for her. I dare not think that all is over
between you and us, here in the Red House.
Good-by,
Milada Rezek.

The letter dispatched, Milada's tensity relaxed, melting

into indefinite, timid hope.
The third day, earlier than she dared expect, the answer
came. A brown parchment envelope among the bills,
photographs of naked girls, offers from the Provinces. Care-
fully she opened it, holding it for a moment in caressing
fingers. The writing was thin, delicate, without shadow,
fleeting as the faint perfume that arose from the paper.

Me voilaJ Miss Milada. No, I am not angry. Your

letter is very like you, grave, intelligent, a bit mys-
terious. My thanks for it. I am not angry at the little
spitfire. God grant a speedy end to her recklessness or it
will be too late for medical aid. And my offer regard-
ing the home "Humanitas" still stands, for any time.
Miss Milada, I honor the uncomprehended reasons
for your self-immolation, mysterious as it seems. I my-
self-forgive me-l do not feel the urge to harden my
soul, nor to delve deeper into such thankless affairs.
My letter proves my lack of prejudice, I hope.
I have been in Berlin in this interim, and will prob-
ably go back for the summer semester. But first there
is Whitsuntide, and for me the green of young meadows,
the forest glades, the song of birds and many other
lovely things. When I come back, can we not meet?
Shall I come to you . . . or you to me?
Awaiting your decision,
Gus Brenner.
 THE RED HOUSE
Milada laid the letter aside, took up her household
\}Oaks, calculated, made entries. The tensity had gone, in
its place was emptiness that pained. "What did I expect?
Tru.... understanding . . . bridging the gulf . . . a help-
ing hand held out to me, to us all? Nonsense. He looks
forward to the Whitsuntide holiday, he goes to Berlin,
thinks of his future . . . all so natural." She knew what
his coming had meant to her . . . but to him? Merely a
passing experience in a full life. He was of another world.
Why should she dare to hope he would share her inter-
ests, her aims? Ah ... all his kindness, his jovial self-
confidence, what were they but the assurance of the free
man . . . shining as the sun in these halls of bondage.
She and Horner planned, probed, sought causes, systems
... while he was ready with decisions, with a sharp Yes
or No, overleaping all obstacles.
She took up the letter again. "Shall I come to you . . .
or you to me?" He had thrown out a rope across the gulf
. . . should she accept it? "I do not feel the urge to
harden my soul......
Yes, she could picture him, as he wrote these words.

§ 10
W HITSUNTIDE came clothed in joy of Spring. Saturday
brought a postcard from the mountains. Two signatures:
Gus and Joszi. Milada studied the brightly colored pic-
ture with its green wooded slopes, its glimpses of red-
roofed huts, its foaming white cataracts. But the wings of
her fantasy were lamed. She could not vision it.
At noon Bina, red-cheeked, excited, dashed into her
room. "Milada, will she let me go home? Just one lvhole
day . . . I'll pay her if she wants it. See here, I had a
letter . . . Cyril's coming home for the holiday."
··nid he write you?"
 THE RED HOUSE
"No. Toni Stadler, my friend, she says there's to be ·•
big festival and dance and Cyril is coming. I must go
home, Milada." •
"As far as I'm concerned, you can go." She too" the
letter, read it through. She would not dim this joy by
doubt. "Why didn't your own people write you?"
"Oh, they thought . . . 'cos I went home Easter . . .
maybe I couldn't get leave again . . . but I'll surprise
them."
"I'll settle with Miss Fini. You want to go tomorrow?..
"Yes, early . . . I'll be back late. Tell her my mother's
sick. I don't mind saying that about her/'
Bina was ready, her little grip packed with her red
silk gown and many pieces of embroidery, when Milada
brought Miss Josephine's consent.
The evening, as al\vays on the eve of holidays, had been
a busy and noisy one. The widow from St. Polten, offered
by Ascher, had arrived. She was small, plump, blond with
friendly eyes and smile, brittle as glass. She loved to talk,
and kept mere conversation too much to the fore as chief
purpose, Miss Josephine thought. This widow had too
many society notions. But the little lady's middle-class
past and background proved an attraction. Spears of
brightness, opening like shooting flames, shone in the sky
before the drawing-room was emptied.
The morning was fair and fresh. Collars tumecl up,
masculine shapes slipped from the house and hurried off.
Window after window darkened.
Bina left at half past six. Her hat shaded her face, her
hand was cold and trembled as she said good-by to Milada.
"I'm so happy," she whispered.
"Come back as promptly as you can," said Milada, stand·
ing by the house door.
"I know," replied Bina, and hurried off.
Milada was weary, worn out. Josephine's constant. nag·
 THE RED HOUSE
ging, \\ hining, her spying in the rooms for tips left by
7

guests . . . her distrust of Milada herself . . . the girl's

soul felt rubbed raw. With the help of the janitress, she
tidied the big room, opened the windows to let the stab..
bing rays of the sun cut through the smoke-filled haze.
Then she sent the yawning woman to bed. When the
heavy footsteps, the closing of a last door, died away, The
Red House lay in deep silence. "They're so tired . . .
they're all asleep. I, alone, am awake." Yes . . . it had
deeper truth. They slept, she alone was awake to the
verities of this life. She had seen the light, and faced it,
cruel though the brilliance might be.
She saw it all clearly, the snares, the brutal tyranny of
the exploiters, the utterly defenceless position of that social
outlaw, the earning prostitute, whom civilization may
plunder at will, of material goods, of health, of freedom.
She knew the Zimmermann house opposite, where the
girls were kept like prisoners, half-clad, for fear they might
escape. She knew the orgies that passed as police inspec-
tions there, when the fairest girls, clad in the lightest of
gannents, followed the officials about, brandy bottle in
hand. She knew of the secret departures, under shadow of
night, of worn-out "wares,; the mysterious training of
neophytes, the systematic exploitation of virginity . . .
she knew it all to the last dregs of misery. Her soul was
steeped in it, dulled to habit, to acceptance. But there
were no more tears of pity . . . no illusion . . . it was
all so useless. No kindly smile could cool this pain, no
word heal these wounds, no redeeming thought climb this
pyramid of wretchedness.
She went to the window, stared fearless into the glowing
heart of the rising sun. She talked to him . . . to this
bright orb, though she knew he would never hear her.
"This misery holds me fast in iron chains. A ring around
my heart that stops the breath. I would help . . . heal
186 THE RED HOUSE
. . . but I live on in the old way . . . exploiting. I rise
slowly, perhaps . . . but it is over corpses. Oh, if I could
end it . . ." her thoughts reiterated, angrily.
The sun did hear, mayhap, and sent a warm wave
through the morning cool, like a warm hand on an agued
brow. "Little fool, why end it? There is still love ...
love, Life's eternal sun and promise. Love . . . charity
. . . the warm word, the redeeming thought. "
Could she help? Had she not helped here and there?
Helped to keep the eternal sun in the human heart? And
yet how little it had been, in this morass.
Milada raised an accusing hand towards the city out
there, over which rested life's dreamy smile of awakening.
"What do you know of our existence? You women who
shrink back when you meet us, and yet follow us with con-
temptuous curiosity? You men, who come to us by night,
when we stand beneath the bright lights, painted, rouged,
hung with gauds, to serve you with the warmth of our
bodies, to ease your heaviness with our reckless gayety
. . . you who slam the door behind you, careless, indif-
ferent, once you are sated? What heed have you of the
tragedy of creeping years, of fading charm, the curse of
sick bodies, devitalized souls, to whom the past is but a
shudder, the present a clinking of shards, the future a
grave . . . Who of you has courage to look into the day-
time face of Shame?''
Milada breathed deep. A man must come . . . of
strong unshaken will, joyous, victorious as Spring, catch-
ing together all that had still the will to live. This man
should say, "Come, follow me."
Suddenly she stared at the dancing light reflected
through the red curtains. Where had she heard that call?
"Come, follow me, all ye that are heavy laden?,
It was not Gus? No . . . now she saw the Cross, the
 THE RED HOUSE
Crown of Thorns, the bleeding side. "Come unto
,,
M e. . . .
No . . . Gus was alive . . . young, warm, happy . . .
Milada smiled, and fell asleep.
When she awoke, the room sparkled with sunlight.
"Real Whitsunday weather, ain't it, Miss Milada?" said
the maid, coming in with her coffee.
no m-nT4lnrO ooocro orro ooorrcns n om oOT6lr4 oooar

BOOK FIVE-EXPERIENCES

.o_o o o_o_o o o_o OJLO o u tJUUUUl9 OJLQ o o_u QJUUl.O o o o OJULQJLO o Ill

§1

BINA returned to The Red House early on Whit-Mon-

day. No one had seen her come, no one remembered open-
ing the door for her.
Milada passed the girl's room during the forenoon, and
heard a faint noise within. She opened the door, saw Bina.
fully dressed for the street, sitting on her little valise. But
there was something in the disorder of her clothes, in the
girl's attitude, that caught Milada.
"Bina, what's happened?" The girl looked up, slowly,
heavily. M ilada's heart pounded in pity; somethina
terrible must have come to Bina. "Tell me, what is it?
Come . . . get up."
A quiver ran through the frozen features, loosening the
rigidity of heavy limbs.
But it not release, only the beginning of a terrifit
outbreak. Bina fell full length upon the floor, screaming,
beating her tossing head upon the boards until it seemed
as if no skull could stand it.
A few moments more and the room was full of half·
clothed girls, standing about the frenzied prostrate Bina.
"What's she got?" uSend for the doctor." "She's poisoned
herself." Little cries of terror and advice flew thick.
Milada tried in vain to raise the gir1, the others helped
188
 THE RED HOUSE t8g
Putzi poured a basin of water over her. Left-side Anna
sprayed her with eau de cologne. But Bina clung to the
floor, twitching, screaming half-heard words which no one
understood, fighting the helping arms, snapping like a
mad dog at Milada's hand trying to save her head.
"No good," said Anna, "unless we get a man in to help.
Better let her work it off this way." Mrs. Poliski, the jani
tress, pushed her way in. "What's all this row? Miss Bina,
ain't you ashamed of yourself, makin' all this hullaballoo.
Folks are lookin' up at the windows. We'll have the police
in a minute. You'd think this was Mother
,
pace.
I
That helped; Bina lay still. Now Milada could raise
her. "What's the matter? Speak up. Tell us." The girls
talked all at once.
"I don't know. Is it me? Where am I?" Bina rose heavily,
stared at them unseeing. Her face seemed fallen in, her
eyes were red and swollen. "I . . . was out in the fields all
night," she spoke low, to Milada.
"Didn't you go home?"
"Bina, were you home?"
"Now . . . I know . . . know everything." Bina
sobbed, dull, weary. Her eyes moved around the circle of
faces until they came to Milada. In these kind gray eyes
she found haven for her abysmal woe.
"I'm quiet now,'' she whispered, nodding to Milada.
She sat down on the valise again, rested her arms on her
knees, sank her face in her hands and remained motion-
less.
The girls stared uncomprehending.
"Soused," diagnosed Anna.
"Gone nutty," was Putzi's solution.
But Milada sensed the truth, darkly. "Go on out . . .
go back to bed," she whispered to the others. She drove
them out, took Bina's hat, wet through, from her head,
 THE RED HOUSE
and threw a coverlet around the silent body, which gave
no other sign of life than an occasional shudder, like an
unuttered sob.
An hour later, Bina lay comfortably in bed, fast asleep.
Her wholesome peasant face, roseate, cheery, was drawn
and gray. Even in sleep the strong fingers clenched, then
spread in horror at some dream vision. Her breath was
an uneasy panting . . . she seemed running, fleeing.
"Poor soul,, said Gisi, who stood beside the bed when
Milada returned. "What do you think's happened?"
Charming in her dainty green morning gown, Gisi bent
over the sleeping girl, adjusting the pillow with motherly
solicitude.
"Some deviltry," replied Milada curtly.
"From . . . him?" Milada nodded. "Hm-ahvays a
beast of a man back of it when we go to pieces . . . and
then they talk about 'saving your heart for the right
one' I" Gisi 's sweet face hardened, she kicked the wet hat
into a corner. "Then . . . he won't take her now?"
"Do you wonder, Gisi?"
"N . . . n . . . no . . ." Gisi's voice was very low.
Head drooping, she crept from the room.
Towards noon, word was brought to Milada that Bina
had locked her door and was heard moving about the
room. She opened at once, at Milada's knock. She had
tidied the room, smoothed her bed, dressed herself neatly,
made-up as if for the evening. The pale sunken cheeks
showed wan under the heavy powder, the eyelids were
still red and slvollen.
"Now tell me, Bina, what happened last night?"
"Last night . . . I sat . . . out in the fields . . . all
night."
"But . . . didn't you go home?"
Bina turned, looked into Milada's eyes. A sob fought its
way into her throat, her voice was hoarse. "It's all up.••
 THE RED HOUSE
Then, with her slow heavy peasant step she moved to
· Milada, took her hand.
"You knew all about me. Why didn't you tell me what
a fool I 'vas? That I was bad . . . lost . . . unfit for a
decent tnan's wife. Why? . . . Why?"
"Who told you all that?"
"Who? All . . . all of them. The pastor, father, mother,
Bozenka, and . . . and . . ." she sobbed, "and Cyril.
Milada, it's all true, isn't it?" she did not wait for answer.
"Let them take it all . . . the money, the little house, the
cow, my man . . . but to treat me so . . . to chase me
from my father's home, like a gypsy thief. And the pastor
throwing his prayers after me . . . fie . . . oh fie . . .
Me standing there like a poor old dog . . . in the rain.
And don't know what they all want of me. Swearing at
me . • • beating with sticks . . . slamming the door . . .
let her go . . . now you know."
By careful, kindly questions, Milada drew out the sordid
tale. Bina had found the family more startled and embar-
rassed than pleasantly surprised at her coming. The house
was swept and garnished, a large table set, but no guests
in evidence. No one would answer her questions, Cyril
was nowhere to be seen. Finally she went to his mother's
house. The door lvas locked, a farmhand told her they
were all in the church, "across the border." In her own
house, her stepmother had only black looks. A restless
unease was in the air; the woman scolded her younger
daughter, Dozenka, for admiring Bina's hat. Then she
!teard some one say, "He's in the courtyard." "Who?"
... "Go out . . . he'll tell you himself."
She went out, heard the old dog whimper a welcome,
then stop as if frightened. A man in uniform stood there
-Cyril.
Bina halted here in her tale, her eyes widened, her lips
quivered. Then she tightened them, and continued. Cyril
 THE RED HOUSE
. . . Cyril pushed away the hand she held out to him, told
her she was a city whore who had no right to come into a
decent home. His mother would disown him if he as much
as took her hand now. He wouldn't touch the shame-
money with a pole, the pastor took it all for the church.
And now let her go back to her filthy trade and sell herself
for silk rags and gold chains.
When she backed in horror, she found the whole family
around her, and . . . another girl . . . her stepsister,
threw her arms around Cyril's neck and kissed him and
laughed. Cyril was still angry, took out his saber. The girl,
Andulka, said, "Don't bother, Cyril, she's not worth it."
"I turned to mother. 'You sent me . . . you .. : She
laughed, 'Do you wonder he prefers a decent girl?'
'Where's my money,' I said to father. 'I don't want your
money, you dirty whore . . . ask the pastor where it is.'
The pastor-long black fellow from across the border-
begins to pray. They r.un off into the house, thro"\V out
my hat, my bag, shut the door . . . That's all . . . I don•t
know how I got on the train . . . went out on the fields
• . . outside the city . . . all night . . . don't know
where. All I know is . . . I want to be dead . .. dead."
She sank back in her chair. Milada stamped angrily.
"That's infamous l Give me the postal checks for the
money. I'll see the la,vyer about it."
Bina looked at her, shook her head heavily. "Can you
. . . can the lawyer . . . make Cyril love me again?"
Gisi opened the door softly, she had been listening. Be-
hind her, Putzi's deep violet eyes peeped in. "Oh, they
knew what you were. It's all a swindle . . . a trick. Your
soldier is a cur."
"No," Bina's tone was firm. "He liked me once ...
from school . . . all the time. But . . ." her full lips
puckered in an effort at reflection, "maybe they're right.
 THE RED HOUSE
I'm bad now . . . a bad woman. I don't belong in the
· village any more.,.
A cruel realization of the world's moral laws dawned
pitilessly on this slow peasant brain. Her face quivered,
her just and honest soul struggled with the new concep-
tion.
"Yes. Sometimes at first, when I saw it meant so much
money, such a nice easy life, I thought it must be wrong
somehow. And when I sent them money each month, I
said to myself, 'You earned it without working.' But noth-
ing happened, everything went smooth, and I thought
maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Now I know. When I
was poor girl, wearing a kerchief, they were kind to me,
father, Bozenka, and . . . Cyril. Now I come with silk
and gold chains and they throw me out. It's the punish-
,
ment.
Putzi: "There's lots of them in the village worse than
you are. "
Gisi: ..You'll get another man, better than that beast."
Milada, with flaming eyes: "They've got to give back
your money."
Before Bina could answer the door bell rang. The other
girls dashed out. "Now listen, Bina,., continued Milada
hastily. .,Head up . . . carry on. I'll help you. You . . .
you liked it here, didn't you?"
Bina nodded. "Because I was thinking of . . . them at
home . . . thinking of . . . Cyril . . . and our little
house. I just kept seeing it all . . . as it was going to be."
She rose, the lines of thought deepened, a limitless sadness
quivered beneath her calm, slo'v speech. "Yes, it's all right
and good, when you get money by hard work. Then you
can be glad of . . . what's to come. But . . . it must be
sinful . . . to make money so easy . . ." A pause, then a
tone of finality: "No . . . they're right. A decent man
can't marry a woman like me. . . .''
194 THE R ED HOUSE
..They must give back your money anyway," said Milada,
smothering her throb of pity with the practical thought,
although she saw that the money played little part in
Bina's misery. Her heart quivered as under a harsh grasp
when Bina continued dully, "If any one had told me . . .
I was just a stupid peasant girl. Mother gave me the ad-
dress, policeman made jokes . . . I thought it was all
right. Some one should have said, don't do it . . . hard
. best. . . .,.
wark ts
Downstairs, the bell rang. Some one called, "Miss Bina."
Bina rose, as by habit, went out. Milada followed. She
saw the tall, heavy, upright figure move towards a waiting
man, give him her hand, speak to him. They came up,
passed Milada. Bina's eyes were fixed on the floor. The
man held her arm, guffawed. The bedroom door closed
behind them.
§2
THE summer began with wind and rain. Milada moved
mechanically through the thousand duties of the day, her
thoughts elsewhere. No word from Gus, but Fanni, in the
hospital ward, had seen him .. . Milada would npt let
herself think. She was worried about Bina, too. The girl
began to drink, she who had been so calm, so reliable.
And when she was drunk she told her story, caring little,
seemingly, that the guests and the other girls made just
one more occasion for rough jollity out of it. Milada
sensed the despair beneath all this . . . and waited, fear.
.
tng.
Then, one evening, came a catastrophe . . . or rather,
at two in the morning. Milada was not in the Salon. Jo-
sephine von Miller, upset, panting, came to look for her.
Bina, half naked, screaming, her face red, stood with a
chair in her upraised hand, while the men still in
drawing-room fled to the comers in alarm. And there was
 THE RED HOUSE 195
worse to come. Miss Josephine, weeping, wringing her
bands, stood in an attitude of utter despair before a man
who was putting her through a cross-fire of questions
backed up by an official badge.
Was this girl's story true? Was she properly registered?
Was she kept here against her will? Evidently, she was not
here of her own choice. And anyhow . . . all these re-
veshments, this supper party? Did the owner have a per·
tnit to run a restaurant? Was the house properly booked
under police control?
And a number more most inconvenient queries, before
which poor Josephine quailed, trembling, helpless as a
criminal caught in the act. Her thoughts whirled like a
millrace. "I knew this would happen! They'll arrest me
. . . disgrace, ruin, imprisonment." Utter hopeless black-
ness that robbed her of articulate speech until Milada
arrived and realized the situation.
She acted quickly. Two girls borrowed from the Zim-
mermann house were hidden in the coal cellar. The St.
Polten widow, cloaked in a big apron, was sent into the
kitchen as assistant cook. Then, while Bina's wine-thick-
ened voice still rose in hoarse complaining, and the chair
came dolvn on table, plates and glasses, Milada rescued
poor Josephine. In a tone of mingled respect for authority
anrl perfect self-assurance, she explained Bina. She offered
to show the other girls' books at once, had signed papers
left by the last police investigator, and then, as a final
trump, mentioned Mr. Theobald Sucher, who was in
charge of The Red House police control. Of course, if the
honorable commissioner wanted anything more . . . But
he was satisfied now, he said; there really seemed to be
nothing the matter except a very drunken girl. To be quite
sure that he was doing his duty he would, perhaps, call
again . . . in a day or so. Milada nodded and held out his
 THE RED HOUSE
coat for him to slip into, leaving it to the trembling Miller
woman to settle the last formalities.
Then, with the help of the janitress, she wrapped a
shawl around the raging Bina's head and dragged her from
the room. In her own bedroom Bina dropped to the floor,
sat there, eyes rolling wildly.
"Get into bed," commanded Milada and went out, lock..
ing the door behind her. It '\Vas almost full morning be..
fore the house quieted down.
Milada was on her way to her own room when Gisi, in
a thin nightgown, ran after her. "Milada, Seidner was
here. He says Dr. Gus sends greetings to us all . . . and
you're to come and see him. Are you glad?" she added,
peering in eager curiosity into Milada's face.
"Little silly, what does that matter to me?., Milada's
voice was as still as her whole body.
"Oh, I just thought maybe . . ." Gisi was offended. But
she brightened again, and said, "Look here," showing a
huge apple, yellow and red. "Seidner gave me that. He's a
philosopher . . . but that other student, the long one,
Joszi, he's not interested in us girls. Sorry . . . I could
like him." Suddenly she threw her arms around Milada's
neck and kissed her. "Here, take the apple." She ran off.
Milada pressed the cool fruit to her warm cheek, and
smiled. Strange apostles can bring glad tidings, some·
times. . . .
Two days later, after the early dinner, Bina Michal
came to Milada's room. "What do you want?" asked
Milada, looking up casually. Bina hesitated . . . flushed,
her eyes wavering. "Are . . . you angry?"
Milada shook her head slowly. "No, but . . . I'm sorry
for you. How could you act so?"
"I know, I know. Well . . . I can't stay here. Send me
away."
"Have you any money?"
 THE RED HOUSE 197
"Don't need any. Exchange me . . . send me away, far
away . . . to some other city. If I stay here, I remember
how I used to sit and think . . . and plan . . . and be
happy. Then I get angry . . . want to fight. If I go away,
that's better . . . no one knows my story . . . no one
calls me 'poor fool.' ,
"Yes . . . but "
"Here . . . here's the answer to my letter." Bina
banded a sheet of paper to Milada.
"Good heavens! Spizzari? You wrote her? She's found a
place for you? What an ideal" Milada frowned. But she
thought, "That's Bina, sensible, far-sighted, purposeful
. . . does not hesitate or parley . . . finds her own way
... even this way. How sad . . . such a way for so strong
and fine a character . . ." Milada voiced her doubts.
"'Nothing matters," Bina answered. The resignation, the
utter emptiness in this simple phrase caught Milada,
choked her. Her workworn hands grasped Bina's thick,
smooth fingers, her voice pleaded. uBina, you may have
done many foolish things . . . but now be sensible, don't
go away without long consideration. To leave here means
to sink deeper, and deeper.''
Bina Michal stared out unseeing. "They laugh at my
misfortune here. I know . . . my fault. But . . . then it
comes up in my throat and I have to scream like a wild
animal."
•'You shouldn't drink.''
Bina flushed hotly. "I'm not . . . drunk . . . every
time.,. Deep shame dragged at the words. Milada turned
away. The vision tortured her. The fine, strong, sweet
humanity in this woman's soul . . . so much worth saving,
so much still to be destroyed. She saw the depths yawning
to engulf Bina's own true self, hopelessly. Milada's very
soul cried aloud for help.
Horner's daring speculations, his soaring thoughts, were
 THE RED HOUSE
useless here. Her own visions fluttered in empty space.
Then, from somewhere, floated the echo of words once
heard, spoken by Gus Brenner. "They'll take Fanni in the
Home for Consumptives, we can save her." Yes, there wu
help, practical, not compromising with actualities. Gus,
the free man, could help. The others were but slaves.
"Bina, I wish you might go into service. You're strong,
not afraid of work. Give me your book. I'll take you to an
employment agency."
Bina shook her head. "Can't work any more."
"Why not? You worked hard enough at home."
"At home? I was happy then, work fun. Now I just
want to drink, to scream, to laugh, day and night. Work's
for some one who doesn't think. And . . . I don't know
why . . . I can't work any more. I'm too tired all the
time." The hopeless indifferent stare gave a look of brutish
stolidity to the broad peasant face.
Milada knew that Bina had spoken the truth.
Therein lay the destructive po\ver of this life. With
sil.Jr en threads it enmeshed the will, fettered strength,
snapped all impulse in the relaxing limbs. This dread of
the outer world, this cowering in an unlit corner of life,
were not of psychic origin alone. The enervated body,
worn by the night orgies, idling through the day in dumb
half-sleep, had no strength left for regeneration.
These poor creatures are not to blame for their inner
demoralization that eats into body and soul, like a foul
disease. No . . . it is the earth in which they root, from
which they are supposed to draw health and strength, an
earth vitiated by your arrogant aloofness, your unspeak-
ably cruel morality . . . an earth which your tradition has
robbed of all essentials to life.
Milada held Bina's hand firmly in both her own. "Bina.
it may be better for you to decide your fate for yourself.
You may be able to think more calmly elsewhere. I'll talk
 THE RED HOUSk 199
to Mrs. Spizzari myself. But let me say just this: whether
· you stay here, or go elsewhere, do not give yourself up. As
long as you do not give yourself up, life cannot harm you.
That is a sure guide.,

§3
THE Spizzari office was buried in a maze of alleys given
over to the Jews. A low narrow door led into a smoke-
blackened but rather large room serving, apparently, as
kitchen and bedroom. Amid untidy heaps of garments,
boxes, baskets, sat a crippled old woman whose timid
reddened eyes sought the door in anxious query. She
breathed in visible relief when she recognized Milada. On
the latter·s question, the crone pointed towards the rear of
the room. Milada went out into the courtyard and up a
curved wooden stairway to the sanctum sanctorum of the
house, the office of old Margot's younger sister. An inno-
cent-looking sign gave the name of the owner and the in-
formation:
"Cosmetics and Parisian Specialties, wholesale and re-
tail."
Milada knocked at the door. When Mrs. Spizzari,
through the peephole, had assured herself of the visitor's
identity, she opened her door on a crack. Milada pushed
her way in.
A large lady with a double chin received her cordially.
In the peroxided hair white strands were showing, one eye
lay dead under a heavy half-closed lid, but the other
gleamed with the keen wary glance of a beast of prey.
Nelly Spizzari-really Spitzer-one-time dancer, was a
well-known, not to say notorious intermediary, procuress
and general "agent," most of whose business would not
stand the light of day.
She sat now before a most respectable-looking desk,
200 THE RED HOUSE
covered with documents, trade magazines, newspapers.
Around the room were high cases hung with green cur.
tains. The shelves were laden with packages, boxes of
samples, cases of Oriental curiosities, books and pictures of
a most innocent appearing exterior . . . queer articles in
rubber and hard wax . . . an indescribable arsenal of
material of all sorts sold to the Initiate at high prices,
under cover of secrecy.
But neither this trade, nor the employment bureau run
by her crippled sister Margot, was the source of Nelly
Spizzari's growing bank account. She was known far and
wide as a procuress and trader in girls for brothels. "My
business is most respectable," she insisted. "I never sell a
pound of flesh over the border., Her sneer expressed her
contempt for all foreign bordels. Madame Spizzari was a
specialist of repute in her business, an artist, one might
say. She did not believe in putting through a deal except
in a room suited to the purpose. And one of the most
profitable of her "purposes" was in providing assignation
quarters. For her trade in "flesh.. she had a special office
also.
She nodded cordially to Milada, and drew the green
curtain from a hidden door. The room they now entered
was small and bare, a sort of reception vestibule, lvith a
long table and straight chairs around the walls. On the
table were boxes of cigars and cigarettes, worn decks of
cards, a brandy bottle with six glasses. The room seemed
windowless. In one corner leaned a large black portfolio,
closed with a good lock.
Mrs. Spizzari pulled forward a chair for Milada. "I'm
glad you came and not that Miller woman. She's a nui-
sance.''
Milada was well known to her hostess. The "agent" had
watched the girl's development and was ahvays ready with
praise for her ability and energy.
 THE RED HOUSE 201

''Bina Michal wants to leave us, Mrs. Spizzari...

"Good thing for both of you ..,
"Well . . . what offers have you, Nelly? I make just one
condition, cut out Galicia."
"Say, think I'm a dumbhead? Send a Goldscheider girl
to Galicia?" Nelly Spizzari laughed, adjusted her horn-
rimmed spectacles, sought a key on her lVatch chain and
opened the big portfolio. As she turned over documents,
photographs, she said, almost casually, "Five hundred and
thirty-is that what she owes you, Miss Milada? And what
percentage comes off?,
"Three hundred and fifty, and 30% of the remainder-
you know. But I'd prefer an exchange. We need something
new. For the autumn season-say from August on-we'll
need new material."
"Hm . . . Redisch in Agram closes down in August
... I'd give you something from there for 25%· You'd
pay more than that for beef. Well? . . . You'll have to
lose a bit in that deal, you gypsy, you. It's summer resort
season, and plenty demand."
"Not one penny, Nelly. You know our rule. But haven't
you any definite offers?"
"Sure, but I ain't goin' to hand you any leavin's. Look
over this. Olmutz, Znaim, Brunn . . . stuff you wouldn't
touch. Aussig, yes . . . Weber's maybe, but they don't
pay . . . yes, Weber has good wares all right, but he sends
them off almost naked. Old-fashioned notions, ain't it?
Costs you the outfit, you'd have to allow 45 %·"
"No."
"Now listen, Miss Milada, she·s been with you six years
and she never lvas no beauty."
.,Four years, Nelly. Anything else?,.
..Sure, sure. Then we'll pigeonhole Aussig. I've got
here . . ." her hands closed on a letter sheet. "Miss
Milada, would you like to make a good solid trade, a real
202 THE RED HOUSE
business nowl I'll be honest with you. You're not paying
Aussig with 45% lvhen you can get good material for
25%· I'll make a deal with you . . . you knonr Budweis?
Fischer's place?"
"Well?"
"What's well? If those folks want to, they could buy out
your Josephine von Miller twice, they got money, that
Fischer bunch. They don't need no girls . . . they can
get them ten on every finger, from any where. But they
want to get rid of one.''
"Get rid of one? From Budweis?"
"Now don't you sneer. You know your business, but
there's more to it you don't know." Nelly Spizzarrs anslver
showed irritation. "I ain't been saving up that girl for you
nor for no one else. She's a real bargain, I'm telling you.
If Fischer hadn't got into trouble, this town would never
see her. Some scandal with a lieutena.n t. Police mix-up.
She's no debts at all . . . and Fischer pays you 40%.
Well . . . there's a trade for you."
"Have you a photograph?"
"Have I?" She took a photo from the envelope, showed
it to Milada. "Well . . . some girl, eh? Is it a deal?
Fischer's a gentleman . . . he'll lose by the trade. Still,
scandal with army men-that's a nasty mess, you know. If
he gives you go percent. . . ."
"Forty, Nelly."
"Forty, thirty, meme chose. I have full power to close
-and my commission. . . ."
"Now wait a minute, Nelly. That's a good bit of busi·
ness . . . for you, but not for us. If the girl has no debts,
ilien she has no clothes. I know that side of it. Our Bina's
got a fine outfit. Fischer must give that girl all she needs
or else pay us seventy-five percent cash. I don't like these
accounts hanging in the air . . . with the provinces."
 THE RED HOUSE
"You got a head on you," murmured Mrs. Spizzari, an-
noyed.
"Fischer's in a mess with this girl . . . use that for your
own profit, can't you? I'm not hankering after taking some
one who's in bad with the police. Fischer's no coward, he's
a friend of Sucher . . . must be pretty smelly if he's
scared. But I'm not making trouble. I'll do it if he pays
seventy-five percent, fifty for us, twenty-five for you, or
else gives the girl a good outfit. Anyway, I'll keep Bina's
luggage until the other girl arrives. That's our good right,
as you very well know. I'm sorry enough to send our Bina
to such a place. It isn't The Red House.''
"Give me twelve and a half commission and I'll get the
goods for you."
"Can't be done."
"Fischer'll skin me. How about my cash expenses?"
"I'll pay those from my own pocket, when you turn over
the girl.'' Milada held out her hand, Mrs. Spizzari grasped
it warmly. "You're all right . . . always did like you.
Good strong hands . . . done a lot of hard work, eh? All
for that fool Madam?"
Milada laughed. "Oh, no . . . I've salted down a bit for
myself too." The other woman nodded, stood a minute or
two in thought, then closed her big briefcase carefully,
and touched a tiny button on the wall. Milada scarce be-
lieved her eyes. The bare gray wall slid aside, showed a
white paneled door 'vith gilt lining. This door swung open
softly and Milada stared into the most exquisitely beauti-
ful and perfectly equipped bathroom she had ever seen.
Her profession took her into many hotels, private apart-
ments and houses of assignation, but she had never laid
eyes on anything like this gleaming combination of rose-
tinted marble, shining crystal mirrors and satin-smooth
tiling. Soft shaded lights struck a hundred reflections from
facets. Waves of soft perfume floated through the
 THE RED HOUSE ,
204
air . and when the water ran into the sea-shell bath..
tub, faint hidden music came with it.
Milada gasped. Nelly Spizzari smiled, flattered, even her
dead eye showing pleasure at the other's frank amaze.
"Yes . . . b u t wh y . . ."
"Come here." A curtain of shimmering satin parted, re-
vealing a bedroom beyond, fitting companion-piece to the
,subtly luxurious bathroom. Milada stood silent, in utter
astonishment. Finally she found her voice, lo\v, respectful..
"The Emperor might be satisfied here."
.,Sure, I'm not takin' in any trash," replied the Spizzari
woman. "Now you see my idea," she continued, as they
retraced their steps. "Twenty such rooms, a black door-
man in livery, gambling table . . . winter garden. I've
been in Nice, my child . . . millions is what they make
there, millions, eh, Miss Milada? 'Tisn't like this at home,
with your bean-pole of a Miller, eh?"
·"It's like a dream." Milada stared at the tall brown
shelf-racks which hid all the secret splendor.
Nelly Spizzari took her hand, spoke low, with mean-
ing. "Listen child . . . would she sell?''
"Sell?" Milada started. She had never thought of this
possibility. Josephine von Miller sell out . . . strange
hands in the business . . . and she, superfluous ...
pushed aside? She had not dreamed of it. It came much
too soon for her plans. But it came . . . uncalled ...
unwished-for. As Destiny comes. And she felt that she
moved forward to meet it when she answered. "Oh . . . if
the offer were high enough. She's put so much capital
and trouble into the business."
"Capital's a side issue, child, in this business . . . and
as for the trouble . . . between ourselves, that woman
hasn't head enough to press a sheet straight. We, in ottt
trade, know what the business brings in. Well, cost's
 THE RED HOUSE ...
ing to ask. Might think it over . . . main point is: does
-she-want-to-sell?" She emphasized each syllable.
"Well/' Milada threw in casually, "there's my option. I
have a bit of capital myself.''
"Oh," exclaimed Nelly Spizzari, electrified. "You ought
to know what they think of you in the trade. They know
what's what and '\Vho's who."
"The situation is this," said Milada. "I've taken over
Mrs. Goldscheider's mortgage interest. And I have a
smaller mortgage of my own on it, with Kessler. It's a mere
matter of form that I'm not part owner now. You have to
go slow with the Madam, she doesn't trust anyone. I'll
have to prepare her for the idea of selling. If you spring
it on her today, she'll jack the price up absurdly. But let
me catch her in some trouble, some worry that gives her
nervous indigestion and makes her see black. Of course,
such crises can be brought about." She coughed lightly.
"Much can be done with her at such moments."
"What did I say!" squealed Mrs. Spizzari in delight.
''Never saw such a head on young shoulders. It's a pleasure
to work with you. Well, if the Lord lets us live that
long . . ." She broke off. Milada went towards the door.
'fhey both felt enough had been said.
As Milada walked through the streets she felt that to-
day, for the first time, she had acted with conscious inde-
pendence, had taken a step forward towards actualities,
towards victory, or defeat. Her freed will held out its arms
towards the future. . . .
"Might call on Gus Brenner," she thought suddenly.
Again and again she had tried to write him, had destroyed
the letters, fearing some disillusion if again she met him.
Now she halted, blinded almost by the extent of her joy-
ous expectation. Call on him? Why not. There was time
enough to make the detour along the Quay. "Nothing out
of the way about this visit . . . he asked me to come."
206 THE RED HOUSE
Once it was rid of any lingering romantic cloak, one sa"'
there was really nothing at all to it.
There was the Quay. Beside it rolled the dirty waters
of the river. Ragged children dipped their feet in the dark
flood. Soldiers with their girls paraded the graveled em-
bankment. The sun struck gold from roofs and windows
of the quayside houses. Then she saw the blackened walls
of the old warehouse, its unfriendly little windo,vs, wire-
netted, blinking at her. The sign was worn by wind and
weather. .,David Brenner, Iron, Steel Wire, etc. Whole-
sale." Piles of iron plates, rolls of wire, encumbered the
entrance. A heavily laden wagon forced her against the
wall. Urchins busily collecting useful bits of metal stared
at her. Milada hurried through the arched entrance into a
square court, heaped high with boxes, barrels, hand-carts.
"Can't get through here," a man working over a barrel
told her. "The old gentleman's in his office out front."
"And the young gentleman . . . the doctor?"
"He's in the new wing . . . over there."
She went back to the arch, opened a door. A bell
jangled, a green baize office door fell back, a tall thin old
man with a tiny white mustache came out.
"Who you looking for?''
"Mr. Brenner."
''0 ld or young one?''
"Dr. Brenner," she replied bravely.
"Hm . . ." His eyes half closed. "Might as well meet
the old man too. Your 'Doctor' is in the n1ezzanine, first
door to the right." He bowed and disappeared. Dazed,
Milada climbed the iron stainvay, shining bright in clean·
liness. Was that an office employee? . . . or . . . possibly
. . . No, there wasn't the faintest resemblance. That
calmed her. A white enameled door, the first friendly
thing she had seen in this house, bore Gus' visiting card.
Milada felt suddenly very clear, very practical. She went
 THE RED HOUSE
over the first words she should say to him. But when she
touched the bell, she trembled. The tiny shrilling shook
her. No sound inside. She rang again . . . no sound. Now
she realized the tension of the last hour; something rose in
her throat like suppressed tears. Her wish to see him had
been as a flame: her longing, irresistible. There had been
no conflict within her . . . just the wish, the will to see
him.
And she stood before a closed door!
Her dreams fled before the simple fact that the young
man was not at home on this delightful spring afternoon.
It was all so simple. A slate with dangling pencil hung
beside the door. She wrote her name on it, and the words,
"Was here." .
Then she slipped down and out of the house, meeting
no one.
§4
Gus BRENNER sauntered homeward through the mild
spring evening. He had decided to spend the evening at
home, studying. He was annoyed when Joszi, with whom
he had supped in a restaurant, doubted the program . . .
still more annoyed at Seidner's meaning grin.
Why not? He was not interested in many of their amuse-
ments. As if there was nothing to do but kill time in cafes,
or with women. "Cat hunts/' he called them. Gus was a
bit of a snob, they said. His mother's aristocratic ancestry.
Well, Joszi could laugh . .. he stood alone in the world.
Joszi was full-blooded, part gypsy. But he . .. Gus . . .
why deny it? His patrician blood was repelled by any de-
bauchery. Philistine maybe, but he liked the straight and
narrow way, clean things. He must remain true to himself
. . . yes . . . that alone had meaning and worth.
At his door he halted, startled. "Milada . . . was
208 THE RED HOUSE
here . . ." Milada . . . the housekeeper of the . . . why
-what?
He had entirely forgotten that his letter contained an
invitation and that he had sent a greeting and a renelval
of that suggestion at Seidner's last visit to The Red House.
He was angry now, as he took the moist sponge and wiped
out name and message. He thought it shocking, indecent,
this . . . invasion. After all, that was not the right sort of
connection for him.
He got out his books, poured a glass of fine yellow wine,
lit a cigarette, and settled himself in his comfortable ann.
chair.
"Milada . . . was here." Rather clever that. Wonder if
the old man was on the watch as usual. Trust him. Prob.
ably got on at the first sight . . . conspicuous clothes,
phony jewelry . . . they're all that way, those women. Gus
would hear more of it next day. Looks, hints, questions
. . . the entire apparatus of fatherly anxiety.
"Milada . . . was here." No, he was unjust to this girl.
There was nothing of the harlot about her. Joszi felt it
too, the first time. Eyes of a Sphinx dreaming of miracles
. . . yes, there was something in that, it was true.
He leaned back in his chair, tried to call up her face.
He could see only the eyes, large, gray, straight-glancing.
Then words came, that she had said . . . "I need some in.
termediary . . . to life . . ." "There is so much here to
heal, to help . . ." This girl was not easily comprehensible
. . . Gus tried to be cynical . . . "Fruit of the present so-
called democratic tendencies . . . turns heads . . . leads
to wild deeds." Yes, she had something of the fanatic, the
revolutionary about her. Like . . . yes, like Corday, or
Luise Michel. He remembered an old picture of this cour-
ageous fighter . . . deep eyes that looked into far futures,
lips that showed mastery . . . the ability to rule. His
mother never liked him to have thoughts about such
 THE RED HOUSE
things. He must see only what was bright and gay . . . no
delving into the abysses of the human soul . . . no mining
of its secrets.
He remembered his weeks in The Red House, his ethi-
cally correct behavior and helpfulness. No one of his
friends would have done all that . . . so without any
thought of self, of reward. He really had wanted to save
Fanni, to bring a bit of brightness into the prison of the
others . . . He lay back in his chair, sending his thoughts
out into the spring night. He closed his eyes . . . Mystery
floated up to him, bent over him, kissed his blue boy's-eyes.
He opened them wide again, they shone in hot desire.
Yes, this girl was different . . . she was strong, free . . .
Joszi said a chap should be careful of that sort.
He was so tired of being careful of this, that and the other
thing. He'd heard it all his life, dinned into him.
He sprang up, paced the room with long strides. He'd
had enough of that patronizing care . . . that watching
over him. He would live now as best suited him. Wasn't it
his own life? Not Uncle Benno's or Aunt Martha's?
He dropped into the chair again, took pen and paper.
Then he hesitated over the address . . . finally swept all
doubt aside and plunged in.

"Milada, will you come again next Monday? Don't

let the unfortunate chance of my absence today inter-
fere lvith the future. I shall be very glad to see you
again, after all these weeks.
Au revoir,
Gus BRENNER."

That sounded all right. He ran dolvnstairs and slipped

the letter into the post box at the corner. No one in the
house must see it.
The letter came safely to The Red House. Like any
210 THE RED HOUSE
other girl in love, Milada kept it under her pillow at night.
and carried it by day in the black money pocket which
ahvays hung at her belt. Life came to meet her, smiled at
her from the tiny letters that seemed trying to escape from
the paper. She would see him again . . . hear his voice
. . . Gus. Happiness had indeed come to her. . . .

§5
AFTER an unpleasant hour in the police station, the
penalty of peace for The Red House, Milada walked
swiftly towards the Quay. She ·was free, she let the soft
spring air blow through her brain, wipe a'\vay all sordid
cares. Gus was waiting for her. This thought erased her
anger at her helplessness in the face of patronizing insults
from the 'guardians of the law,' the exploiters of such as
she. But why think of it now? Gus was waiting for her.
Gus . . . how little he knew of her life, the life of those
other girls in The Red House and elsewhere. For him the
prostitute \Vas still the woman who gives, smilingly, joy-
ously, in the bright lights of a well-equipped drawing-
room, laughingly young and reckless. He knew nothing ot
her deepest misery, her blackest shame, the whole agon-
izing tragedy of her crushed and broken humanity. . . .
Forcibly she put the thoughts behind her, tried to in-
terest herself in the life of the street around her, in the
chatter of nvo little schoolgirls walking nearby. Finally
she reached the arched doorway, the sound of her light
steps lost in the thunder of iron plates being loaded on a
wagon within the court. She met no one as she slipped up
the stairs. A voice above her broke the dimness like a
beam of light. Gus called down, "Good evening, Milada
. . . come right on up.,,
"Good evening, Doctor," she answered cheerily ...
but the sound of her voice frightened her. It was not
 THE RED HOUSE 211

cheery, seemed harsh, forced. He held out his hand to her

. . . eagerly she clasped it . . . warm, smooth yet strong.
usalve," he chanted, holding the door for her to enter.
"Hm . . . you might have at least a candle here," she
remarked, picking her way in the dim corridor.
"Why? I know the way, and I want my friends to learn
it. Ready?" He opened a room door, letting out a flood
of warm red light. Through wide windows hung with thin
white curtains she saw the broad surface of the river, rip-
pling with sunlight; in the distance, gently rising hillsides.
Above all, the sun, cloaked in the purple mantle of his
farewell to the earth. Red tears sparkled over the universe.
"How . . . lovely!"
"Yes, isn't it? A candle in the vestibule would have
spoiled the effect. One must come from darkness to kno'v
the blessing of light. But let me take your hat and coat."
He carried them into the next room. She smoothed her
thick waves of brown hair. Gus returned, stood behind
her. "Mirror?"
"No, thanks."
He walked slowly the length of the room, whistled
softly. There was a little pause. HYou're very comfortable
here," she said, looking at the table with its white cloth,
platters of cold cut, fruit and three bottles of wine.
"Others coming," he answered curtly.
She had not yet looked into his face. Slowly, savoring
the minutes, she drank in the joy of his presence.
"Tell me," he said suddenly, uncertain, and brusque be-
cause of his uncertainty, "weren't you surprised ....
that I kept writing to you?"
"I thought you really did want to see me again." She
was surprised at the gentleness in her voice. She raised her
fog-gray eyes, tiny red lights flickering in their depths, to
his face. "How young he is . . . how beautiful . . . how
young," sang the eyes.
212 THE RED HOUSE
"Miss Milada," he stood beside her now. "Let us be
honest. I hate ambiguity, unclear relations. You interest
me, Milada. I . . . like you . . . in spite of . . . every.
thing. I consider you . . . a lady. But I do not like the
place where you live nor . . . those others."
"But I do not need to live there," answered Milada.
rigid. "I am free to go, whenever I will."
"Then go . . . leave it all. Why remain there? If
some unfortunate chance . . . ignorance, treachery . . .
brought you there, don't stay there because of the money
it brings, Milada. Can't you see how degrading that is?,
"It isn't the money, Doctor. I stay there because I love
them all. The poor distorted, broken creatures . . . they
are the only family I have."
"Oh, I thought as much," he broke out bitterly.
guided humanitarianism-sentimentality-nothing else. I
can tell you," here he threlv out his chest, "those women
deserve no sympathy, no sacrifice. They are made up of
vice, shamelessness and falsity.''
"You speak of them as you know them, the rouged, in.
sistent, hungry women who hang themselves on your coat-
tails at night, who are ready to do anything for money.
Yes-they have waded through an ocean of misery before
they '\vashed up on that strand. It is the last quiver of the
starving beast that would find food. Yes, Dr. Brenner ...
they are just as you say. But I . . . I have seen the begin-
ning ... I have seen the first frightened
struggle with the engulfing bog. I see them dance over the
shining, treacherous surface . . . slipping, falling, stretch-
ing out appealing arms . . . sinking, sinking, hopelessly,
until they become . . . '\Vhat you know."
She paused, drew deep breath, then continued, coura-
geously: "At the start, these girls are artless, happy, laugh-
ing. They laugh at anything; they brighten life for you and
your friends. No one despises them then; they do not know
 THE RED HOUSE
the meaning of scorn and hatred. No one then believes
that they will become false, wretched, ready for any vul-
garity, for any viciousness . . . and no one realizes that
what makes them change is you . . . and your sort . . .
your love. You leave her, when you have had enough. The
first man pleaded . . . then comes a second, a third. By
that time she is no longer the giver, she is the beggar. That
is her reward for her one-time gift of herself, for love. Sht-
becomes-and remains-the harlot."
Gus frowned. "And those who are born wanton? Who
would rather go down to destruction than do honest work?
You don't expect me to believe there is no other way for
them?n
"Oh, my dear Dr. Brenner . . . Yes, there are women
born wanton, but still it is a cruel wrong that we make
their downward path so easy. They are weak and erring
ones; they need support, aid."
"A convenient philosophy."
"No . . . it is truth, won by years of experience, by
bitter realization of facts. There are human beings who
are born with a lust for blood, who would murder for the
sheer joy of it, did not human society clamp them fast in
iron laws. But what law leads us through the labyrinth of
the sex urge? Yet we dare, on this uncharted path, to set up
our morality as a guillotine to drink the blood of the weak?
Oh no, I have not thought that all out myself. Books have
taught me, and Horner."
His blue eyes were boyishly defiant. "Ill-digested social-
istic reasoning," he broke out. "Horner wallowed in
pathos, always. No, society is not so cruel . . . there are
institutions, convents . . . the Salvation Army. The pros-
titute who really wants to reform finds a helping hand
everywhere. Read other books than those Horner recom-
mends. Oh, I knew that you are a soul wandering in a
labyrinth. Homer's impotent philosophy superimposed on
214 THE RED HOUSE
the usual girls' school education. No, Milada, don't try to
cor.avince me. I respect you . . . but I will not waste any
more time asking myself how a girl of your education, your
intelligence, your . . . true womanliness . . . can endure
such surroundings. I do not want to know what man-
what brute--brought you down to this. I will not ask." He
stamped his foot; Milada's soul quivered. "Enough that
I know that somewhere in the world is a man who has com..
mi tted this crime. Enough . . . not a word more.·• She
tried to speak, he laid his hand on her mouth. "No,
Milada, I warn you. I will not listen; I can endure no
more. I want to enjoy these hours. I have looked forward
to them . . . with such pleasure . . . such happiness."
Milada shook her head, as if defending herself against
the thoughts that would come. Happiness, deep, unutter..
able, lay in the touch of his hand. And yet her brain spoke
to her . . . How alien to all my innermost life is this man
whom I love. Horner, with his distorted soul, is nearer to
me; this boy here wants only to enjoy his happy summer
day to its end. . . .
"Milada," he said suddenly, softly. His lips brushed her
forehead. All turmoil died within her soul; she heard only
the gentle voice that stilled all revolt. "You take it all so
hard . . . you lift too many burdens to your shoulders.
Your eyes are so sad. I want to make them brighten . . .
want to bring out the dancing red flames that cut through
the fog in them. Why should others' burdens spoil this
hour for us?" He drew her down beside him on the sofa.
"My life has not been so easy either. I've been tossed and
torn between a tyrannous father and my poor sick mother.
She loved me as no one else has ever loved me. I'll tell you
about her, some time." He held out both hands. "So we'll
both try to forget and be happy?''
"Throw off the burden?'' she thought. ''Ah, if one could
. . and rest a while by the wayside... She took his hand
 THE RED HOUSE 215

He stroked her hair very shyly, flushing like a school boy.

J{is touch soothed the ache in her brain; it was like the
blessed moment lvhen sleep is hovering near.
"Come in the next room, Milada . . . it was Mama's
room." He opened the door. A white-walled room, all in
delicate tones, silken softness. "Pretty, isn't it? Mama had
such taste." She listened as he told of his friends, his stu-
dent years. Her thoughts ran on: "I'll never be able to say
anything that interests him. He does not want to know my
world; I can never find myself at right with his. All these
things are so strange to me, so alien."
Gus chatted on. "You'll like Olly, she's a great girl . . .
good business head, but always ready for a lark. Joszi calls
: 1er a tame beast of prey. You' 11 like ] oszi when you know
him better. He's really your sort; he'll understand your
tdeas . . . a bit of a demagogue himself. Here . . . wait
a moment." He opened the window; Milada saw a little
balcony filled with flower pots. Gus bent over them, chat-
ting, then came back to her. "Here . . . I really should
have given you these when you came." Bowing, he handed
her a bunch of flowers.
Milada flushed, her eyes shone. "For me?"
"Yes . . . camelias. I've thought it over . . . oh yes
. . . I think a lot about you. Camelias suit you somehow
... they are so proud. When one looks at the camelia it
seems to be saying, 'When one is as beautiful as I am, one
need not be fragrant also.'"
"Oh, if you knew," her lips quivered helplessly, "how
all this. . . .''
"No . . . don't cry." He held her close, his eyes shone
down on her. "How pretty you are now."
She stood motionless, held in the spell of a sweet con-
fusion that lamed all conscious action. The strangeness of
the situation for her, and the heart-tremors that seemed
like an undertone of music in exquisite harmony with
216 THE RED HOUSE
moment, stirred her like glowing wine. She thought and
spoke without her usual keen self-control; something with.
in her seemed to close its eyes . . . sink into deep, deep
sleep. The woman who now awoke, laughed, murmurect
fervid words, wreathed her arms around her beloved's
neck, caught the flowers in her hair, loosened it to let the
heavy braid ripple into his hands . . . laughed . . .
laughed . . . a tiny silvery flow of sound. This woman was
a new-awakened blissful child with burning cheeks, trem-
bling limbs . . . a happy girl-child laying the veil of her
dreams, in hot shyness, closely around her prescient
body. . . .
Long they sat thus, close in each other's arms, and Gus
talked . . . about happiness, sunlight, freedom, moun-
tains, solitude . . . The words passed by Milada in a
vague haze of bliss at the warm breath of his mouth, the
gentle caressing of his hands.
Then she heard herself speaking-a voice strange to her,
an alien from the deepest stratum of her being, from
regions she had not imagined, from hidden recesses open-
ing to free imprisoned impulses. As she spoke, tears came
to her eyes, her cheeks flushed in sweet shame at the
nakedness of her soul, bared before him.
". . . the natural reaction . . . dear heart. I under-
stand . . . your surroundings poison your soul . . . you
will see it all otherwise . . . when you are free . . . when
you are in my mountains." His voice was warm with sym.
pathy. HNo . . . do not say any more. You do not see
clearly as yet. All this is nothing new, I tell you . . . this
sacrifice is of no avail. We are all given our orbit, there we
must remain. The titne may come when this humani·
tarianism of which you dream may be possible . . . but
that time is not yet. . . ."
She heard his words, but one thing only stood clear in
her mind . . . he was good to her, he loved her . . . a
 THE RED HOUSE
gift of fate such as had never before come into her poor
life. . . .
''I cannot talk as you do. I am in fetters, here . . . brain
and heart. But it is sweetest not to talk . . . no long words
... just to feel you know . . . because . . . you care for
roe . . . or you . . . love me . . . because you know all
. . . all this . . . Gus . . . I am so stupid. Which . • •
which is it?"
She looked up at him, red star-dust gleaming in her hot
glance. His own young eyes dimmed at it; no one had ever
looked at him just that way . . . so entirely his. "Which?"
he began.
There was a burst of laughter outside on the stairs, foot-
:tteps. Gus rose, flustered. "There they are . . . Joszi and
Oily. No . . . be calm, just wipe your eyes."
"Oh, boy . . . here we are." The door flung open, a
tall slim girl dashed in, then halted, lvith distrustful lower-
ing of lids over large black eyes as she saw Milada. She
turned again to the door and spoke with affected precision.
"Joszi, be sensible. There's a lady here. He put on a big
false nose-4Jn the street. I was ashamed to be seen with
him." She flung off hat and coat and stood revealed in a
tight-fitting dark blue gown with white lace collar. Nose
tip-tilted in eternal curiosity, mouth broad, soft-lined,
sensuous. She was charming.
"Milada. this is Olly-Polly."
"Oh please, my name is Olga Pollini. My father was
Italian."
"Hm . . . blue-blood all on top tonight, eh? She's just
told me I'm only a morganatic. . . ."
"Shut up, you braggart."
"Oily, you might give me back my stud." Joszi held
his shirt together with one hand.
"I haven't got it. Stop pestering me."
..Well, then I beg a general pardon:· said Joszi with
218 THE RED HOUSE
an air of resignation, his short-sighted eyes peering at
them. "This lady felt the perverse desire to use a little
garnet stud with which I am in the habit of closing this
. . . this hiatus . . . to hold together a recalcitrant
garter. Were I not so polite, I should say, an improvised
ganer. Oily-Polly came to see me with only one garter
. . . half-attired as it were. I don't know, of course, what
,
eIse was. . .
"Now you're not funny, just plain nasty. . . ."
"Oh, cruel one . . . that hurts. Take note, friend Gus,
women are never so impertinent as when they have de-
ceived us. I knew what had happened the moment she
arrived. It was the women of a past generation who were
sweet, honey-mouthed, wheedling, in consciousness of
guilt. The present generation knows not that conscious-
ness. No, Oily. I need no confession. Your annoyance with
me and my humble existence was quite enough."
"Well . . . that's-that's the limit. Confess? What did
I confess?"
"Everything. You hadn't gone back to the shop this
afternoon because of your sick aunt. And poor sick auntie
gave you a pretty gold chain . . . and that you'd like to
box my ears . . . and a whole lot more all in one breath
.... and I didn't ask a single question, either."
Joszi poured wine into the glasses, handing them to the
girls. ''This is great," exclaimed Oily. "Gus, your father
must be reeking with money."
"He's not the susceptible kind, Oily, you'd be wasting
your time. Better stay by your own old man."
"Never mind him, Oily, he's jealous." Gus handed
around plates of cold cut, cheese, salad. He turned to
Milada. "Don't you want some? Do eat."
It was Milada's first experience of this sort of party.
Oily's type was absolutely new to her. She knew only the
women of her own sphere who, be they young or old, beau·
 THE RED HOUSE
tiful or plain, intelligent or stupid, all looked up to the
men around them, subservient, ready to bend to every de-
mand. But this girl, merry, pleasure·loving, reckless,
treated her lover with a mixture of coquetry and com-
mand, treated Gus with an easy comradeship that made
her the center of interest at the table, queen of the little
gathering. Milada gazed, enthralled. Gisi was much pret·
tier than this girl, Fanni could be just as amusing, and
yet . . . not one of the women of her circle would have
dared to talk to a man as Oily did.
Oily ate, chatted about her "Madame" at the milliner's
shop where she worked, aped the stout ladies who bought
youthful hats, teased Gus and bullyragged Joszi, all with a
natural wholesome youthfulness, a simple primeval self-
confidence that seemed to snap its fingers at carping criti-
cism. "I am I . . . if you don't like me . . . very well
. . . that does not concern me." The unspoken words lay
back of the glances she threw, from time to time, at the
silent girl lvho sat opposite.
Oily was really a mite irritated. "What's eating her?"
she said to herself. "Thinks she's better than I am, 'cos
she's caught Gus?"
She was accustomed to a quickly-sealed friendship with
any other feminine participant in these little gatherings,
especially, when as usually happened, the other girl was
willing to play second fiddle to Oily's conducting.
But this 'person' didn't even look at her. She just sat and
stared, now at the \Vall, now at the table. Olly peeped
under the table. No, there was nothing going on there that
mighl explain her silence. Silly thing . . . must be prud-
ish. . . .
"Gray fogs are gathering." Gus leaned fornrard, looked
into Milada's eyes. "When we see that in the mountains
we know it means . . . rain."
220 THE RED HOUSE
"Oh, no . rm just so happy," she whispered in reply.
"0n 1y I can't talk . . . 1"t's . . . 1't's t oo d eep. "
Whispering? Oily had enough. "Don't mind if I go on
eating, do you? rm starved. Say . . . your braid's full of•
hairpins . . . how did it come down?" She smiled at
Milada artlessly, then rose and came around behind her.
"They'll hurt you if you lean back." With the same appar.
ent innocence, she picked out the hairpins. "My, what
hair! Wish I had hair like that. You ought to see the
skimpy pigtails I have. Now if I had hair like yours . • :•
"rd have long since sold it profitably," Joszi completed
the sentence.
"I wouldn't be hanging around with you folks, I can
tell you. Hair like this gives a girl a lot of chances ...
only you don't wear it right. You ought to loosen it around
your face.u And to show her royal magnanimity she
quickly loosened the braid and let the red-brown richness
fall like a purple mantle around Milada's shoulders.
Joszi stopped eating, put up his glasses. "Superb."
"Wait . . . I'm not finished." She took from her belt
the flowers, white narcissus, Gus had handed her at her
arrival, and fastened them over Milada's ears. "There
now?"
"How lovely you look," said Gus, bending over to kiss
her shoulder. Oily went back to her place, complacent.
Now they could see the sort of high-minded person she
was.
"I feel so light . . . so free, .. murmured Milada, her
eyes drunk with blissful amaze. "All my thoughts fly up
and away . . . nothing can hold them."
"No, I always say we'd have no cares if we could run
around naked. It's those blamed clothes that worry us."
"Quite so . . . if we don't know who's to pay for them,"
remarked Joszi. Oily ignored him. "And when everything's
 THE RED HOUSE 221

off . . . you do feel so free. I try it every morning, in the

sunshine."
"Hm . . . is there a room to rent across the street?"
"Oily's so philosophically inclined tonight:•
"Must be the company:•
"Do I make you serious?.. asked Milada, a bit anxious.
•'But I'm so happy . . . I feel . . . as a child might . . .
only I don't kno\v how happy children do feel. . . ."
"That depends on the child. For instance when I was
little, I. . . ."
.. Careful, Oily, remember our youth and
Oily turned with upraised hand. It hung in the air at a
sharp voice from the corridor outside: "Carl, put out those
lights. I'm closing up."
"Earlier than usual." Joszi looked at his watch.
"Naturally .. . Because I have guests."
"I'll tell you, I'm not going down those stairs alone
after twelve o'clock. There's a ghost down there, runs
after you with a dark lantern, stares you in the face. Last
time, I yelled."
"So did he. You gave poor old Carl the fright of his
.f ,
11A.e.
"Gave me nervous prostration. But anyway, if you boys
get to talking . . . and forget all about me .. .''
"What did I tell you, Gus? But it was stupid of us. She
didn't appreciate our sophistries."
"Which, perhaps, is high flattery," Gus smiled at Milada.
"By the great God Pan, I fear we were drunk-both of
us--rather than subtle."
Oily slapped him on the back. "He's the biggest fool
ever, knows he can't stand it.''
Joszi raised his glass to Milada. "Revered lady, an un·
worthy slave asks your indulgence. Oily is revealing hid-
den shame. I promise I will not drink tonight . . . to-
night I \vill live with full consciousness. And as proof
 Ill THE RED HOUSE
. . . when I have tossed off this last glass, I will tell you
just how much you deposited in your savings bank today:•
"You can't."
"Oh yes, my dear. But as I do not believe in miracle,
myself, I will explain that you dropped the receipt from
your handbag and that I put it back there. Yes, Pierrette
is dead . . . forever . . . she no longer dances over life
like the butterfly . . . she is a busy, thrifty ant .. . she
has a savings bank account. Mimi Pinson darns stockings
. . . what is left of all one's illusions?,
Olly reached for a piece of candy. "Same old nonsense
. . . then he'll drop asleep and snore."
Joszi shook his head sadly. "How, I ask you, how can a
man manufacture enough illusion, within himself, to
love a woman with a yearly income? And a savings bank
account in her own name? Oh, Oily-Polly . . . the future
is dark. You will become practical, fatl Fat ... hear that?
You, who to me are the symbol of spring . . . of sweet,
unthinking, spendthrift, blossoming, alluring, feral femi..
ninity. You have killed my ability to love. From now on,
Gus, I shall be sensible and make a rich marriage ...
Oily, you were an unspeakably enticing beast of prey, you
will be an unspeakably boresome housewife. Pierrette is
dead!"
By this time his glass was empty. Gus brought
bottles. "He loves to talk," said Oily, low. She hated to
have the practical side of her nature made a topic for talk.
It was her little secret. Otherwise she loved the role of
'enticing beast of prey• which Joszi laid out for her.
Milada listened, enthralled. Gus leaned his cheek
against hers, flushed, throbbing; her hair fell about him.
"Isn't he wonderful?" he whispered. "But he really does
. feel deeply about it. . . ."
"Yes, I see that."
J oszi stared into the full glass...Oh woman .
 THE RED HOUSE 223
What devil brought order, system, into the golden chaos
of your nature? Robbed you of the adventure-soul that
Jives within your enticing body? Oh, Oily . .. you 'vho
could squander passion, love, lust, on one glorious spring
night, for a cup of hot chocolate the next morning . . .
remember? Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . and this girl turns
respectable, and will-inevitably-grow fat!"
"Rot." But Oily's voice was soft. She bent towards
Milada. "Such nonsense . . . just like these men, isn't it?
Want to be so ideal, for themselves. We mustn't have a
sensible thought . . . oh no. But when they're done with
us? And there we stand with all our 'sweet recklessness,'
eh? I know better than that, believe me."
She rose, opened the piano lid. "Come on, old man, play
for me . . . if you're sober enough."
Joszi rose, a bit uncertain, stared at Milada. "I am not
drunk, only very sorrowful. Look at her-born for joy,
for love . . . and she saves money . . . looks to the
future. No, I am not drunk, Circe." He caught her around
the waist, whirled her in the air . . . singing gaily. "You'll
have hard work to win me tonight."
"He knows women, doesn't he?" said Gus, beaming.
"He's a good man. . . ."
"An idealist. Listen . . . he's sworn never to touch Oily
unless she begs him . . . that's his little joke." Gus joined
in the college song Oily was now singing.
"It doesn't seem real," thought Milada. "It's all so won-
derful . . . these dear folks."
"Do drink . . . your eyes are those of the Sphinx now,
the Sphinx smiling in her dreams. What does one call you
for short, dearest? Milada is so . . . so heavy, so serious!'
"Like me," said Milada, rising.
"Oh, no." Fire sprang up in Gus' blue eyes. "You're
slender and strong as a young boy . . . I love that." His
blond head pressed against her hips.
224 THE RED HOlJSE
''She looks like a fleeing chamois, springing over deep,
deep abysses,,. threlv in J oszi from the piano.
"I shall call you Mila. . . ."
Oily shrilled a medley of clear high notes, threw
music sheets at Joszi's head. He laughed, rose, took another
full glass and came to Gus and Milada. "Look at him,
Milada, our Gus here . . . he is the truly happy man, the
man who will remain forever young. Prosit, Gus . . . may
you and your sort live forever!"
He drained the glass, drew Olly on his lap and, in a
thundering bass, burst out into a rollicking chorus. Oily
could reach the piano with her elbows, she touched an
occasional chord and cadenced on the higher key.
"Oh .. I 0 o o I ought to be going," said Milada sud.
•

denly.
"No, sweetheart . . . not so. Run away? Oh dear, no."
Gus stroked her cheek gently, and whispered, "Mila . . .
kiss me." The words were lost in the noise chorus, and
Oily's laughing, "Oh do keep to the tune. 0 • ."

"Listen, Mila, they're so noisy. Any,vay, they've forgot-

ten us. Come, I want to show you something. . . ."
Milada looked at him, but followed. Olly was not so
lost but that she could grin and nudge Joszi. For a moment
she \Vas jealous. If Joszi only lvouldn't drink so much. ...
The bedroom was flooded with lvhite moonlight, the
thin curtains fluttering in the cool breeze. "Nicer here,
isn't it? No smoke, no noise. . . ."
Milada stood in the window, braiding her rich hair,
crisply sparkling in the blue-white light. "No . . . why
cion't you let it hang?"
"It doesn't . . . suit me," she replied, low.
"Be happy, sweet . . . wait, here's some wine . . . the
best . . just for us." He fetched a fat squat bottle from
0

a cupboard.
"No, thanks . . . r d rather not drink any more." Mi·
 THE RED HOUSE 225
tada started at the cold formal tone of her own words. He
was so warm, so tender, and she . . . an odd shrinking
clamped her senses as in an iron ring. "Why can't I find·
an answering glow in my heart?" she thought, shudder-
ing. "I . . . have nothing to give him; I have finished
... with everything." She caught at his hands. "I wish
I might be like Oily . . . gay . . . light-hearted . . .
willing. I . . . cannot. You will see. You will . . . draw
back . . . afraid of me. Never . . . never . . . can I be
as she is." Her voice was that of a tortured soul.
He stamped his foot. "I don•t want you that way. I like
you just as you are, as tart as a wild fruit. Can't you under-
stand? You-just as you are-you intoxicate me. You and
your silence mean more to me than all the Ollies in the
world. I can't be caught by a bit of temperament. Milada,
tell me, what is it about you that charms me so? It is not
merely the senses, not desire alone . . . although you are
very lovely. I . . . Mila . . . I have never seen a woman
like you."
He dropped to his knees, pressed his head to her skirts.
The piano crashed out in wild accords; Oily's high soprano
pierced the quiet.
"I . . . I'd go down to destruction ••• for your sake,"
Gus whispered hotly.
"Gus . . . Gus... She held his head in her cold hands,
sought his lips.
"No, no, that wasn't a kiss." His low voice quivered, he
drew her down on the edge of the bed.
She caught his seeking hands, held them off. Her voice
dragged, heavy, dull.
"Gus, I know it will be . . . foolish . . . if I go away
now. You lvilllaugh at me . . . the others will laugh. You
all know . . . where I am going. I have nothing to fear,
nothing to lose . . . I know it. And yet . . . I will not
be yours for this one hour. I can not.., She spoke low hut
 THE RED HOUSE
every word fell heavy-laden in the dark room. "I know
that you will not respect me one hair's breadth more
because of it."
.. Hushl" He shook her arm. "How dare you speak ...'
. way . . . to me.';)"
thrs
"I would lose . . . Myself . . . my real Self. Ah, you
little know how I have fought for it. I would lose it all
in this one hour. And you . . . by tomorrow you would
not know if it were I . . . or some other."
"That is not true," he whispered angrily. "I am not
drunk. You can ask Olly if I have ever brought her in
here. I want nothing now . . . just to feel you are here
. . . drink your very soul . . . that I may understand."
Her strength was gone, he drew her closer, his powerful
young arm clasped her.
"I want nothing of you." His lips were buried in her
throat. "But . . . do not speak now . . . be silent . . •
now.''
There was no sound from the other room but a soft
whining from the piano. Gus lay quiet, pressed against
her . . . his breath moved the curls on-her temples. Min-
utes passed . . . her head sank lower.
Suddenly she started up . . . a voice called to her, loud,
sharp, irritated . . . she was sure she had heard it. It must
be very late. She tried to rise . . . she felt herself thrown
back on the bed.
"Don't torture me," whispered Gus. His hot breath
touched her face. "Why do you struggle . . . why?" She
felt his breath, panting, in her ear . . . as how many
times before. . . .
And then it was that visions, cruel, ugly, foul, over-
whelmed her, killing all sense of love. A hundred times
before . . . not meant for her, for Milada . . . all this.
Just the body, the poor will-less body, that was what he
desired . . . for that he moaned and quivered. He and all
 THE RED HOUSE
the others. "No . . . no." She pushed back his wavering,
seeking hands. She saw all the others before her . . . with
hideous clarity: the thin old man to whom Mrs. Gold-
scheider had turned her over when she was sixteen. He was
the first . . . then came the long train of the others,
young, old, friendly, brutal. A groan of sickening disgust
pressed from her lips; her arms stiffened in repulsion, in
despairing protest. There was a silent struggle in the
darkness. What Milada fought, with every atom of her
strength, was man's lust, man's predatory claim. It was not
Gus who sought her now, it was the lechery of all men
crushing her down with brutal force . . . the lust of the
old, the young, who had taken her, bought her for money,
blew hot upon her wearied wishless body.
"No . . . let me go." She caught his wrists, held them
fast. Her voice was hard, finn. "Gus . . . I tell you . . .
you would have no joy of me." A threat flashed in the
words.
His arms relaxed. "Don't scream so . . . they wilJ
,
h ear.
She sprang up, smoothed hair and dress. In his bitter-
ness she felt the hurt, humbled pride of manhood. uNo
one will believe that you have not taken me now," she said
in deep sadness, looking down on his tumbled head buried
in the pillolv. "Let me go. I cannot . . . I cannot even
explain why."
He did not answer. She turned the key, looked into the
other room. Joszi sat at the piano playing soft fleeting
melodies that melted one into the other, strange chords
that caught at one another, evaded then dissolved into a
hushed tone of bliss. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling,
the world forgotten.
Oily, pouting like an angry child, sat staring at him.
She jumped up in relief when she saw Milada. "Isn't he
 THE RED HOUSE
the gump spoiling our whole evening lvith his silly
drooning there? Hey, stop it . . . I've had enough."
Joszi closed the piano, smiled peaceably at her. "There
you see, I am not drunk."
"You're a beast."
"No, my darling, no dessert tonight."
Milada took up her hat. "Coming with me, Miss Oily?
I'm afraid it's late."
"Past twelve," J oszi announced. Milada wondered . . .
so many hours seemed to have passed, in the dark room
beyond.
"Might as well go. I'm not losing anything," yawned
Olly.
"No, Oily dear." Joszi took her face in his hands. "And
I'll give you the garnet stud. Gus, fetch a candle."
The girls hurried into their coats. Gus held the candle
for them to go down the short flight. He was pale, gnawed
at his lip. She pressed his hand, looked at him tenderly.
He nodded, scarcely perceptible. "I'll write you," said
Milada.
The sleepy, grinning night-watchman opened the big
door and let the two girls out into the moonlit empty
street.
''Affectionate soul, isn't he?-my old man." Olly began
the conversation. "And that's about all I get from him:·
"What are you . . . I mean, what do you work at, Miss
Oily?"
"Milliner . . . stupid job . . . and what does it bring
in? Hardly enough for a decent gown and hat." They
walked on in silence.
"Which direction do you go?" asked Milada finally .
.. I live in Grabner Street. Let's go through the town,
I like it when it's .quiet like this."
"Then you can accompany me a ways. I live " Mil·
ada hesitated, "near the Louvre de Luxe."
 THE RED HOUSE 229
"Hm . . . nice neighborhood. I know that . . . my
Madame had a department there once. Now she's got her
own shop."
''You're not afraid to go the rest of the way alone?"
"Me? Afraid? Gosh, no . . . I'm the born night-owl.
If a guy speaks to me, and I take a shine to him, he can
trot along for a few blocks. If I don't like his looks, you
can bet he don't stay. But " she paused, then went on
hastily, "you mustn't believe all that guff Joszi was hand-
ing out. I'm no nun . . . but I'm not so bad . . . You
see, a girl like me's got no capital, no assurance for the
future, nothing but her bit of youth, good looks and fun.
And the men . . . that's all very well, but when they're
through, they're through, and we can fade out. So I
say . . ." She halted, hands on hips, staring defiantly at
Milada. "I say, if a worn-out old codger comes along and
likes me, and it don't cost me anything, I'd be a blame
fool if I sent him away just so's not to hurt Joszi's il . . .
illusions. I don't mind telling you I'm putting by money
in the bank. I got plenty need for money, plenty to worry
about, I can tell you."
"So you have cares, Miss Oily?"
..Heaps! I've got a young sister, sixteen, runs around
with a lot of officers. Fur coats at three hundred crowns,
and not a penny in the savings bank. Where'll she end, I
ask you? And mother's sick and grouchy. And then me and
Joszi. Oh Lord, what I've been through. I get eighteen
gulden a week and two meals. He hasn't anything, gives
lessons here and there. And I've never taken anything
from him-never. Sure, he's always liked me .. . but
lately . . . he's so grouchy . . . it worms him. But has he
ever asked himself what'll happen to me when he's tired
of me? No . . . I'm not going to slide down into the
gutter, I've seen enough of that in the family. I see a lot
of pretty things in my shop and the other places. Does he
 THE RED HOUSE
expect me to run around in cotton blouses and hats five
years old?" She gazed at Milada as seriously as if her soul's
peace depended on the answer.
"I can quite understand that . . . a girl with your
looks," Milada nodded.
"Yes . . . that's why I • . . but maybe this doesn't
interest you?"
"It does . . . very much" .
"I was afraid you were too proud . . . and you looked
down on me."
"I? Why . . . why should I be proud?''
"Because you got Gus. He's such a dear boy, and lots of
money; that's a chance for any girl. My old man's ugly
• . . but what does that matter? Pleasure is another
question.,
"What will you do with all the money you make?" asked
Milada.
"Well . . . I got a lot of family debts to pay off . . .
but some day . . . I want to set up in business for myself
. . . just a little shop, nice gowns and hats . . . second
hand too. I have a friend can get me the gowns the prin-
cesses wear. They don't wear them but once or twice.
Then I can live as I like . . . with Joszi . . . if he still
likes me.''
There was a pause, till Oily broke loose again. "But
you don't need anyone else, with Gus. He treats you fine,
eh? Takes you out?''
"I have so little time . . . busy all day."
"But there's all night," Oily laughed gayly.
"I'm busiest then. . . ."
"Whew . . . what do you do?" Oily was interested.
"Wait a bit . . . till we turn the comer . . . then I'll
tell you." Oily looked around, she knew this neighbor-
hood. Then she stared into Milada's calm face. They
turned the comer of the big Louvre building. Milada
 THE RED HOUSE
halted at the entrance to a narrow alley. A single red lan-
tern burned in its depths and lighted the front of a two
story house, drawing itself proudly away from its shabby
neighbors.
"There, Miss Olly . . . there is my . . . shop."
Oily started, retreated a step. "Good Lord . . . but
. . . oh, you're jokingl,
"No . . . I'm housekeeper there," said Milada.
"But . . . that's The Red Housel" Oily gasped.
"Quite right. I am housekeeper in The Red House."
Oily stared, incredulous, aghast. Milada's quiet glance
gave answer. "Good night, Miss Olly, I must hurry."
Mechanically, Oily laid fingertips in the offered hand. Her
lips opened, then suddenly she snatched her hand away
and ran off.
§6
THREE days later, in the twilight hour, Milada again
went to see Gus. Now all inhibitions were silenced, her
surrender complete and happy.
Next day came a letter.

Mila, beloved.
Just back from the cafe, where I met Joszi. As I ex-
pected, he was mighty sensible, admires you, respects
you without prejudice, and so forth. What does it mat-
ter to us?
Hands folded, I thank you in memory for last eve-
ning. It swept away the last touch of bitterness that
lingered in my heart. You must never again leave me
in so sad a mood, so wretched, as on Monday night. It
was not your denial of yourself; that torture only binds
me the closer to you. Deny me often, beloved, I need
this spur . . . but darkness has evil tongues that re-
 THE RED HOUSE
peated your words . . . with a sting . . . No more of
that.
Mila, my own, I will ask no questions, I do not want
to know anything . . . of the others, of yourself. One•
thing I do know . . . our happiness stands by itself, in
deep solitude. May I beg you to say little or nothing of
the outer circumstances of your life when with peopfe
who are in any way connected with me? I will arrange
that we shall always be alone. Your frankness with Olly
was a mistake. She is dazed, horrified, we had to bind
her with the most sacred oaths, to say nothing and for..
get. My idea is, later, to get a room for us ••. away
from this house. A piano of course, for Joszi.
You'll come Friday? My heart sends greetings.
Answer!
Gus.

Her answer:

Dearest Gus:
hasty note by special. Miss Fini is ill, in bed, I
cannot go out. Horrid, isn't it? Be an angel, Gus, come
here. I can see you for a moment now and then and
there'll be a quiet quarter of an hour in my room. Your
letter seems so strange . . . not as you would speak,
when you smile into my eyes. The words come from
your pen, not from your soul. I know you better. I wish
that you might receive the full consciousness of your
own personality, your own Self from my hands, and see
its brave beauty develop in all you say and do. No . . .
dearest . . . the soul that flees into soli tude is on the
downward path.
But you . . . you love life in
your Milada.
 THE RED HOUSE
Gus wavered. "Milada can't come here," he said to Joszi,
smoking outstretched on the divan. "She wants me to go
there. How about it?"
"Let's go."
"But . . . I don't like the idea. Sort of . . . embarrass-
ing to go there."
From behind smoke haze came Joszi's answer. "Art
Satan's comrade thou, and yet dost fear the flame?"
Gus flushed. "Surely you don't think she. . . ."
"Now . . . now . . . keep calm. And don't complicate
so simple a matter. She can't come here, you want to see
her . . . therefore, go there."
"J oszi, this is serious." J oszi sat up, made the grimace
his friend knew as his "serious face," and waited. Gus
laughed, shrugged, then thre\v him Milada's letter.
Joszi read it carefully, then spoke, "'Just as I thought.
These women are most dangerous when we . . . do not
pay them. Now, ardent lover, don't go up in the air . . .
I'm not thinking of money. It will cost more than money."
"But what do you make of it? Your vivisectionist air
drives me quite crazy." Gus really was flattered by the
evident impression made on his cynical friend.
"Gus, come here . . . be sensible. Promise nothing
... don't bind yourself in any way until you've talked it
over with me. Apart from this one inhibition, be as foolish
as you like." He held out his hand. Joszi's tone had a com-
pelling gravity Gus could not resist. He took the hand,
pressed it warmly. Joszi went on. "Good! And, in all
events, your blissfully healthy egotism is always a depend-
able factor, Gus. You're the son of old David Brenner!"

§7
BusiNESS in The Red House slackened up for the summer
months, as usual. Several girls were sent away, others who
234 THE RED HOUSE
could afford it were given vacations. Putzi suddenly came
into money and went off as quietly as she had arrived.
"Left-side Anna," growing irritable and captious, was
shipped to the Provinces.
The time had come for Bina Michal to leave. When
told that she was going to Budweis, she took the announce-
ment with indifferent calm, asked no questions, and, in
response to Milada's surprise, she murmured, "It's all the
same to me.''
"If they don't treat you fairly, Bina, speak up ...
raise a rolv. That helps."
Bina shook her head. "Nobody can hurt me now," she
replied, dully.
She left on a late June evening. Mrs. Spizzari came for
her, snooped about in the house and said to Milada:
"Your new girl will be in in a couple of days. Fischer
writes she's so scared of the police."
"That's promising. Think. she'll put the Secret Service
on our trail?" queried Josephine von Miller anxiously.
The very word police shook her.
"Dear lady, you do too much thinking for this busi..
ness," replied Mrs. Spizzari with an ironic smile, and
bowed herself out.
The group of girls clung together in the corridor. Bina
went from one arm to the other. "Here's a silk scarf,"
sobbed Gisi, tying it around Bina's neck. "It's so drafty
in the train."
Milada's last word was: "Head up, Bina, carry onJ"
The cab rattled over the pavement. Bina looked out
once more. But Milada was not at the door, as she had
hoped. The curtains were drawn. The Red House stared
back at her, blind, dumb. Bina sighed. "The Doctor" was
upstairs with Mila. Her heart wrapped itself in this last
aching disappointment.
 THE RED HOUSE

§8
MILADA's affair with "the Doctor," as Gus was called in
The Red House, had soon attained an admired and popu-
lar legitimacy, free from all the gossip, malicious pin-
pricks that accompany such an association in "respectable"
circles. In places like The Red House, one learns to look
more naturally on the natU)."al affairs of life. A sigh of
gentle envy, "she's in luck": that was all. For Gus, coming
from the sphere of narrow prejudice, this simple accep-
tance of the situation, this respect for the decision of
others, was a large factor in the happiness of the weeks
that followed.
Even Josephine von Miller made no protest. She greeted
him with the same respectful attention she would give to
any man of his antecedents, and sang his praises. It cost
Gus a struggle with Milada to arrange that he should pay
any charges incurred in the house to Miss von Miller
herself, personally, keeping Milada out of it. Doing so, he
frequently threw down a bill of large dimensions and
forgot the change.
For the other girls, his daily visits soon became the
cheering note in the monotony. He now belonged to
them, as it were; his arrival was the signal for an enthusi-
astic gathering in the corridor, and he had his troubles
freeing himself. He got no aid from Milada. She looked
on amused, following the instinct of her awakened heart,
secure, happy.
She was young again . . . or rather, young for the first
time, living each day for itself. A new, blissfully winged
childhood had come to her. She bubbled over with foolish
little words, with bright laughter coming from trans-
parent depths of Nothingness, fluttering whither it would.
A thousand belated blossoms of her soul came into bloom,
 THE RED HOUSE
and she strewed them recklessly out over the gray stretch
of street they wandered together. ,
She laughed at the girls as they danced in rings around
Gus; she laughed at his efforts to free himself; she
parodied his anger at Josephine von Miller and took a
childish pleasure in repeating to him the words of praise
which, during his absence, fell from the "Madam's" sour
lips. "She says you're like Marquis . . . wait . . . Mar..
quis Posa. Who '\Vas that?"
"Rubbish," he growled.
"Oh, dear one . . . you do not deserve her lovel"
When he grimaced Milada threw her arms around his
neck. "Darling, I couldn't endure a word against you(
You'll be careful, won't you, when the girls are around?
That Mitzi is a little beast."
"She's amusing."
"But I don't like her."
"I don't like any of them. They deserve no sympathy
that I can see.''
Milada did not answer. Gus was quite sincere in his
words to J oszi. "I assure you, I'm curing her of those silly
ideas. We never mention it now. I'm freeing her more
and more from her surroundings."
"All right," grunted Joszi, whose never-attained ideal
was the Englishman's phlegma.
Gus himself did not realize how easily, how without
inhibitions, he sank into the atmosphere of The Red
House. His gentle nature, feminine in its love of a dra-
niatic situation, floated happily on the waves of uncritical
admiration that surrounded him. His affection for Mil-
ada was a blending of passion for the woman and admira-
tion of himself; there was not a moment when he did not
realize, magnanimously, that he loved her.
He would happen in frequently in the late forenoon,
burdened with books and papers, anti establish himself
 THE RED HOUSE 237
at Milada's desk. He insisted he could work better here
than at home where there was so much noise. He brought
his favorite cigarettes and his long pipe, hung it on Mil-
ada's key rack. His light housecoat hung peaceably beside
her lVOrkaday apron.
His warm sonorous voice, the delicate fragrance of his
Egyptian cigarettes, filled the room. Like a spoiled child,
be wanted Milada with him every minute. If she was
busy elsewhere, he whistled a loud fanfare which, as she
said, acted like a magnet, pulling her back to him.
She was so absorbed in the thousand little tendernesses,
the inventive caresses of their hours of love, the amusing
little tiffs about nothing at all; so filled with the verses,
impromptu rhymings, that whirled through Gus· head,
and lvhich he repeated lvith the solemnity of a schoolboy
. . . so sunk in this whole new alien world opening before
her as before the eyes of one imprisoned . . . that she
lived a somnambule existence in this house she had known
since her babyhood. Mechanically she went about her
accustomed duties, dralving her very breath the while
from that other sphere. And it would sometimes happen
that she, usually so controlled, would find herself strug-
gling nervously for words if anyone spoke to her suddenly.
Amid some daily occupation, sorting linen, planning for
the kitchen, the a\vareness of his presence would gather in
her to a so intense sense of happiness that she would
pause, press her hand to her heart, stare out as through
a veil. She no longer \Vatched with anxious care the hap-
penings in The Red House. She rested.
In all this joy of young love, loosening the tensities of
Milada's nature, there was one dark spot, one ever-
bleeding wound. Pictures of the past, hideous ghosts of
memory, pressed cruelly forward to the light of her pres-
ent day. She could not endure the thought that her lover,
with his laughing boy's eyes, should ever glimpse the
 THE RED HOUSE
wretchedness of her childhood, that she should ever
appear before him, free from the romantic shimmer of
unknown misfortune, as the outcast, neglected street child
she had been in actuality. •
Slowly, pitilessly, grew the fear that his love would die
should he learn of the thousand uglinesses through which
she had passed, the humiliations to body and soul whiCh
had come to her even after the dawn of consciousness.
Every one of these girls here had had a few short years
free of filth, of shame. She, alone, had not that memory.
Once, in a moment of flaming passion, Gus hacl pressed
her close, stammering, "Mila . . . could I but have
known you sooner . . . saved you from this terrible
place."
Then she saw that he was still aware, with horror, of
her only home. Once, the vision of a possible betrayal,
some danger of which she did not dream, caught her with
such terrifying clarity that she left her duty of the mo-
ment, dashed upstairs to her room, staring at him as at a
ghost. The bang of a closing door had frightened her.
He was there, as usual, and greeted her with a pouting:
"Well, at last. I'm bored to death here alone."
She held his head to her breast. "Gus," her voice quiv-
ered, thickened by fear, "Gus . . . please don't ever ...
ever . . . go away from here without saying, 'Mila, I'll
tt
come tomorrow, or . . . or. . . .
I

"Or?"
She achieved a wan smile, raised a finger in pretended
invocation. "Or else tell me . . . you are not coming
back . . . ever."
"Welll What's the idea?" Hts surprise was quite real.
"Just silly cowardice," she murmured, shaking off, in
one blissful second, the torture of many hours.
Her happiest moments were when they sat together
quietly, and Gus talked. Gus felt the need of self-
 THE RED HOUSE 239
eXpression, and he talked well. Pictures of his childhood,
his emotional mother, the spoiled daughter of an old
patrician house, his grandfather, who so loved beauty
"that he broke off his friendship with his best friend when
the latter developed a malignant tumor in his nose. My
Aunt says I am like him . . . but I know I am not so
entirely an esthete." These pictures unrolled themselves
vividly before the listening girl, a new, strange world to
her.
Of his father Gus said little. There was no interest or
sympathy in his heart for this "cold, hard business man,"
from whom he drew a big monthly allowance besides
payment of many bills. The spoiled, hysterical patrician
mother had done her work thoroughly, had parted her son
and his father even before the boy's birth. He could not
see why she had ever married him. The fact that her aris-
tocratic ancestry left little gilding for the pictures of the
past was too mercenary to be entertained long by the
son who worshiped his mother's memory.
Gus loved nature . . . the open, the mountains. Speak-
ing of them, he became a poet.
"I belong in the open, Mila/' he would say. "I should
have been a peasant. I don't really know why I chose
medicine as profession. I feel happiest, cleanest, finest. out
there among the high hills. But do you think I can make
him understand? No . . . but if I had the money I would
buy a farm out there . . . and take you with me. Oh,
what a life that would bel,
She started. "Gus, you're not thinking of quitting medi-
cine, for my sake? See here . . . do you really study here
. . . in this room?"
"Do I? I tell youl This afternoon, for instance I will
study something very important . . . how to kiss you
from the forehead down to ,
 THE RED HOUSE
"Silly boy. Listen, Gus, would you . . . do something
for me?"
"Gran t ed , M adarne . . . ar1se.
. ''
"Take me out into the country some day . . . let
lie out in the \voods one whole day, where I shall see
nothing but the trees, the sky . . . and you. Miss Jose-
phine will be horrified if I ask for a vacation..,
"Oh, we'll kill her . . . that's easy," remarked Gus
with great gravity.
Milada laughed, laid her cheek to his. "It was you
planted that longing in my heart. . . ."
"To see our Josephine killed? Shouldn't wonder."
Milada's laugh rippled out again, then her eyes deep-
ened. "I have never sent my thoughts out there before.
But it draws me now . . . as if the earth had something
to tell me."
"It has, Mila dearest, the earth has something to say to
all of us."
"When I have you with me here . . . warm, alive ...
I seem to be so much nearer the good clean earth. I have
been so shut away from it."
He shook his head, held her close. "I cannot imagine
. . . that. I have always been out in the open. Nature
gives me strength and courage again, when the everyday
lvorries nag at my nerves. I seem to need so much excite-
ment to keep going here in town. Out there, in the moun-
tains, all craving is stilled, I feel so poised, harmonious in
myself.''
"You are . . . fortunate," Milada's voice was low,
filled with bitter longing. Then she brightened again.
"But, dear one, I must go now. So many things need
0

attention.II

"Nothing needs it as I do." Gus caught her tight in both

arms, sealed the protest rising to her lips with hot kisses.
"Love me . . . love me, Mila," he whispered.
 THE RED HOUSE 241

The girl sighed, drew his head to her shoulder, buried

it there that he might not see the cold rigidity chilling
her face, dulling the warmth in her eyes. Icy horror was
her only sensation . . . his young passion raged over her
obmutescent body.
She let the torrent of his caresses spend itself upon her,
she kissed the eyes that hardened in desire for the tremors
of her wearied flesh.
"Love me . . . love me, as I love you."
Over his hot forehead Milada's eyes stared into a murk
of unclean memories, of pictures, of words that wiped
from her life all hope of happiness. In torturing clarity
she relived degrading embraces where lashed-up lust con-
quered even the dulling force of habit.
Too much had passed over her; she shivered under the
fire of his passion. His beloved face seemed alien now,
changed, expressionless. At such moments wild terror
shook her; she wanted to rise, to call his name, but the
weight of his body pressed her down. "Oh, what is this?"
she asked herself, quivering. "Do I not love him? This is
Gus . . . my own Gus:'
Full awareness of her profession lashed her now, in this
moment when she who had squandered so much sacred
joy had nothing left to give the man she loved.
When, later, his head sank weary on her breast, his
loosening arms lay about her body, then did the Hood of
her tenderness stream out over him. In such moments
the inmost meaning of love's riddle dawned in her tor-
tured body.
"I could love some one even more completely than I
love him . . . love with no despair, no remorse, some one
who is little and weak and would perish helplessly with-
out my love: a child."
Passionate anger welled up in her soul against her body
which could bear this longing only to destroy it.
 THE RED HOUSE

§g
BrNA MICHAL had been gone two weeks when a telegram
came to The Red House. '
"Sick Auntie arrives seven this evening. Receive at
station."
Milada recognized the style of the Fischer house fn
Budweis, and drove to the station.
During this, Gus and Joszi sat in a wine room, Joszi
lolling in his chair, listening while Gus talked. Gus talked
. . . talked, happy, a look of sated comfort on his atttac..
tive young face.
"Come with me some day, Joszi, and read in Mila's
notebooks. She has a marvelous way of putting things,
fresh and new, looking at the world . . . astonishing in.
telligence. Gosh . . . I wish I could send her to the uni-
versity. Hey, boyl That's an ideal Why can't we all three
go to Berlin together? That's the way out!,.
"Rather expensive," remarked Joszi drily.
"Side issue." Gus was fire and flame for his idea. urn
sell my collection of miniatures, that'll cover it."
Joszi whistled softly. "And what's my part in this love-
story?"
"You'll tutor her for the entrance exams. She learns
quickly. And to tell the truth, I'm tired of things as they
are here. Well, how about it? You can get lessons there
as well as here."
Joszi lit a fresh cigarette. "And you think she'll ...
just go along?"
Gus stared. "Mila? Go with me? Any minute . . . you
don't know her. You haven't a glimmer of how she has
changed. If I should suggest right now that we start for
Africa tomorrow, she'd be ready."
"Hm• • • •"
"Want to bet?" Gus was annoyed.
 THE RED HOUSE
"Very well . . . but not for Africa, only for Berlin."
Gus took the proffered hand. "You're a bum soothsayer,
Joszi. At least where Mila is concerned."
"Only goes to show how clever she is. . . ."
Meanwhile a closed cab halted before The Red House.
Milada got out, followed by a fat little Jew, then by a
woman wrapped in layers of old-fashioned shawl, her face
bidden by a thick blue veil.
The young Jew, Fischer junior, chatted about his
father's far..flung connections; the woman, even when un-
,vrapped and safe within the house, could not seem to
bring out a word. Big frightened black eyes stared from
a delicately cut pale face.
"This scared rabbit the center of a military scandal?"
thought Milada.
"She'll wake up-has to get used to bright lights again,
eh, Lolo?" said Fischer, Jr. "Then she'll tell you all
about it."
The girl seemed relieved when her companion left the
house. Milada led her to her room, brought hot coffee and
cakes, helped her settle. Lolo had been carefully outfitted
with everything necessary. When everything had been put
in its place Lolo seated herself on the edge of the bed,
staring at Milada.
"Now you're nicely settled," Milada said...You can rest
today . . . but be ready tomorrow."
uAre you the housekeeper?" asked the girl suddenly, in
a deep hoarse voice, which sounded rusty as from disuse.
"Yes . . . they call me Miss Milada."
"Any officers downstairs today?"
"Officers? They don't come here."
The black eyes widened. "Don't come here? Not one
. . . now and then? Oh my God!"
"You ought to be thankful you're rid of them," replied
Milada curtly.
244 THE RED HOUSE
Lolo rocked back and forth, sobbing. "Oh . . . I wish
I could die. 0 h . . . my God."
Milada shrugged. "You'll get over it. But don't let Miss
Josephine see you like this. She wants no weeping willows •
here."
§ 10
AFTERNOONS, after two o'clock, were the quiet hours in
The Red House. The girls went back to bed, the janitress
gathered the soiled dinner dishes together, warned the
scrubwoman to wash them with no clatter, and stretched
herself on the kitchen floor for a nap. Miss Josephine, in
her office, took forty winks. Milada sat in her own room,
lvriting letters or looking through the newspapers Gus
brought in each day. July sunlight burned hot through
the curtained window. Milada wore a pale blue, almost
transparent negligee, outlining her strong slim figure,
leaving free the shapely brown neck.
Gus lay on the bed, smoking. He lVas disgruntled, dis-
satisfied with himself. It was three days now since his talk
with Joszi and he had not yet broached the Berlin project
to Milada. So easy it had looked at first; now a thousand
objections presented themselves.
She was held here by business considerations, by her
own sentimental sense of duty . . . he avoided bringing
up the question, but he knew in advance what she would
say. She was always busy, interested; he was merely a
side issue, a bit of pleasure after the day's work!
Suppose she turned down the project, or refused to
make any change in the present arrangements? Where
would he stand then? He did not like the idea. She was
so independent, her ego unpleasantly pronounced. Was
Joszi really to triumph over himl
He pretended to yawn. "My old man was right. I ought
to go away."
 THE RED HOUSE 245
"He wishes it?"
"Yes. I had an audience after breakfast. Well . . . he
was generous enough. Wants to know my vacation plans,
and how about Berlin? You know . . . I think he . . .
knows . . . about us."
Milada's lips tightened. "What makes you think so?"
"I know him. You can't hide much from him. I don't
know who put him on now, but somehow . . . maybe he
bribed Oily."
"Nonsense."
Gus shrugged. "Doesn't matter anyway. He's liable to
be nasty:·
"What will you do?"
"Go away for a while." He fell back again. Good chance
for a scene here, with the climax: "And you'll come with
me. tJ

Milada went to the window, looked through the blinds

at the heat-glistening street. Her head whirled, she turned
back to her letters, but had to read by syllables to get the
meaning. "Listen to this. Lamberg says he. . . ."
"Milada," Gus' voice cut in, very sharp, "don't you
think we have more important matters to discuss?"
She looked at him, surprised. His eyes blazed in anger.
"Does it really mean nothing to you . . . to have me
go away? Have you suddenly turned to marble?"
"Why, Gusl You'll go away for a few weeks . . . I've
been expecting that . . . now it's summer."
"If I go away now, it may be for years," he replied.
"Who knows whether I'll ever come back.''
"GusI" It was not a scream, just a quiet tone. She raised
her arms very slightly. But he sprang up and kneeled
before her. Something had come into her face that fright-
ened him . . . something gray-leaden, rigid, a cutting of
the life-nerve. He drew a deep triumphant breath. "Mila
••. I knew it," and he thought, "Joszi should see that."
 THE RED HOUSE
Tenderly he closed his arms around her. "Don't try to
play the Invulnerable/' . . . and in thought, "What price
his wager now?"
"But I . . . didn't know," she murmured helplessly. •
"I thought just for . . . your vacation."
"Don't think so much, Mila darling. Just trust me and
listen to me now." He drew her down beside him on the
bed. "I've been thinking hard for three days, about us.
The old man must know. He'll try to part us, dearest. rm
still dependent on him, and it wouldn't be the first time
he has spoiled a happiness for me. I must be ready to
fight anything he will do. You see, dear . . . your
position . . . gives you no protection. You are free game,
if he says the word. You might be sent out of town.
And anyhow . . . your surroundings here . . . I'm only
human, darling, I really suffer under the whole situation:'
His head fell on her shoulder, he sighed deeply.
"Is this the end?" she thought, staring into the blackness
of her own soul. "What shall I say to him? What does he
expect me to say?" But she could not speak . . . would
not.
His voice murmured in her ear. "It will kill our love,
I fear. We live in different worlds. If it were nothing else,
just the thought of the nights here, the hideous nights,
would torture me." He sprang up. "Listen, Mila, sotne-
thing must be done. I can't give you up . . . no woman
has ever touched me as you do. You are more than my
life to me. Feel." He held her cool fingers to his hot
forehead. Then began again, with a new spurt, "Listen,
Mila . . . I've been talking to J oszi. He knows how I feel
about . . . all this. We worked out a plan. Oh, it was
not just an idea of the moment, we've considered it from
all sides. We'll leave here, go to Berlin . . . all three of
us." He looked at her. She cupped her face in her hands
and listened attentively. A deep line appeared between
 THE RED HOUSE 247
her brows.. Gus felt uneasy. "We'll go to Berlin, it'll all be
easier there. Life is different there, freer, more liberal
. . . more modern. Among millions, one can be so much
more alone. Here my whole family drag on me."
"And that's why I'm to go to Berlin? No . . . don't
start up, Gus; I'm thinking it over." She laid one hand
over her eyes.
Gus pulled at his little mustache. "J oszi and I are not
the marrying kind. It may seem as if I acted . . . from
selfish motives . . . but that is not so. Joszi respects you
immensely." He broke off, caught her hand, moved it
down. "Please look at me when I talk to you. Our idea
is that you shall study medicine in Berlin. You are so
talented, and you'll go to pieces here. Think . . . medi-
cine . . . you might get a position in a hospital for chil-
dren. Wouldn't that make you happy?"
Milada smiled sadly. "How you do dream on, Gus."
"But why . . . it's all perfectly sensible. . . ."
"I am too old." Face and voice now held the tone, the
look, we keep for a beloved child.
"But you'd be through with study in four or five years."
"Gus," now her voice vibrated to intense emotion,
muted, quivering. "Gus . . . you do not dream how old,
how weary I am. Begin a new life? Ah . . . if you had
come five years sooner . . . but now, it's too late."
"Then you refuse . . . to go with us?"
"I am under contract to Miss Josephine. As long as she
stays on here, I must stay. But that isn't the main point.
She could easily buy her way now into the convent. She•d
be glad to leave any time. And I'd be free. Free?" She
shook her head.
"Then you don't really love me. It was just a passing
caprice." Gus threw himself into an armchair, pressed his
face against the cushion. Joszi was right . . . she'd been
making a fool of him. But why? What held her here? It
 THE RED HOUSE
really didn't matter about Berlin, but he couldn't retreat
now . . . he had to carry on. "Are you afraid of losing
your money? Then I'll . . ." It was brutal. Before he
could say the next words her arms were around him.
.. Please, please don't," she whispered.
"Then don't keep me guessing."
She went back to the window, her face turned from
him. "Gus, you are so much more fortunate than I. You
can find lvords for what you want to say. I cannot. The
more I brood over it all, the more it all seems so gray, so
shadowy. I know I can never make it clear to you." She
came back to him, knelt beside his chair. "I am not alone,
dearest. I cannot be so endlessly happy . . . so sated,
while the others starve."
"Oh, I understand," he replied magnanimously, andre-
lieved. Now he thought he saw the way out. "These girls
here all believe in you, you are Messiah for them. It might
seem like Hight, I know. But we can help them. I know
the head of the Magdalene Home. She'll take them in,
find them some work. Fanni, too. That would leave you
free, would it not?"
"Oh, Gus, how easy, how wonderful it all seems, when
- your finger points the way. Free? Horner once said, 'Girl,
do you know what it means to be free? We may all be
free in this or that way. But really free-God alone is that.
It is the highest attribute of Godhead. If you pull at · the
string of the kite on which you hang, you may lengthen it
a bit: that is your freedom. You'll still hang fast.' He was
right."
"Then you'd sacrifice me to an idee
"'Gus, can't you, won't you realize? Accept things?, The
pleading in her eyes compelled. "Can you, with your
breath and your wishes, wipe away all the years of my life?
All lliat I have seen and lived through here, all the pic-
tures of 1nisery until the happy hours came, the blessed
 THE RED HOUSE 249
hours with you? Yes, Gus, it was a lie when I laughed with
you, kissed you. I dare not love, I dare not give my own
Self into another's keeping. I am not free. Souls that can-
not be free must remain alone, always. I had not the
courage to carry on when you came into my life. I weak-
ened. I love you."
Shaken, he bent over her. His emotion writhed in the
grip of two iron clamps. Why all this? I shall not desert
her. Berlin or not . . . and no matter what they all say
. . . I'll stay by her. And the other clamp pressed pain-
fully on his unnerved will . . . should he lose his wager?
No, you're an ass, and next minute you'll be on her neck
asking her forgiveness. And Joszi, with his disgusting self-
complacency, will be right again, as usual. Milada 'vent
on:
"Whatever comes, these days have been. My soul has
developed in this life here; the New would oppress it. I
would have no power of resistance . . . be no longer Mil..
ada. Now, don't speak . . . listen. At first, I tried to
understand the reason for such existences, to understand
women like me, and these others, to know why we hide
in corners, live without conscious will, go down to de..
struction. Then, when he, Horner, helped me to see,
rebellion came, conscious, hot revolt. I would change it
all, create the New Right . . . No, do not laugh, those
were intoxicating ideas, that was my youth. I have him to
thank for it. It lvas all so different then, the books that
came into my life, the thoughts, the figures, iron laws
. . . but laws and figures that called a halt to my dreams,
that chilled my anger, froze it. My soul was still then,
frozen. Until a thousand little tiny shoots sprang up. Now
that I understand, I no longer rebel. I love and want to
help. I can help. For I know many things your friends in
the Magdalene Homes do not know, Gus. I know what a
tiny push will send them dolvn, what a faint smile will
250 THE RED HOUSE
pull them up. Forgiveness is what we all need, not the
closed fist, nor the patronizing hand. You are right when
you say . . . that I have not yet saved even one. But . . . ,
is not one blissful moment of happiness, of trust . . . of
rest . . . a salvation? The food one gives a starving man
stands between him and crime, and ruin. Gus, I must help-
them. Pity for . . . for my comrades here burns in my
breast like a wound. My entire life ripens to one fact: I
love these wretched creatures."
As she spoke Gus' face hardened, his womanishly gentle
mouth drew to a sharp pressed line. Had Milada looked
up she would have seen a threatening resemblance to
David Brenner's iron face. But she did not look up, she
stared out into the sunlight.
"My father is a rich peasant," she began softly, as if
speaking to herself. "He rules his lands as would a prince.
Mother came from the mountains, from a wretched,
hungry, weaver village. She was lovely. She laughed and
sang, all hearts opened to her. But he would not marry
her, he cast her off. Then she came here to this House with
her unborn child. She would take no help from any one,
she crucified her pride. She bore me here, I have breathed
this air from my first moment of existence. The sky above
told me my first fairy tales. When it rained I drank the
drops with thirsty lips. I played with the falling leaves.
Was I cold, I sought my own shelter. Was I hungry, I
sought my own food. This alley gave me all I needed, no
one else cared for me, this street is my mother. Are there
not many sisters, children of this street?"
Her voice broke. Gus stiffened. Violence yes, brute
strength, he must use that, the only hope. Otherwise she
would slip away from him. He caught her lvildly to him,
covered her sobbing mouth with kisses. "Mila, I love
you. No woman ever aroused me as you do. It is not the
woman alone I love in you, it is the human being ...
 THE RED HOUSE 251
your wonderful Self." He bent her head back, looked deep
into her eyes. .,Could you live without me? Do you think
you could?" He pressed his head to her shoulder angrily,
until it hurt. "For I must go away . . . can you under-
stand? There is no other choice open now. I did not want
to tell you." He turned his face away, his brow drew in
folds. "I have given my word of honor."
She looked at him, uncomprehending. "Your word.
Why? what?"
"Oh, don't torture me with details. I am officer of
the Reserve, our relations have become kno·wn . . .
anonymous denunciations . . . the colonel of my regi-
ment sent for me and made me give my word of honor
to leave the country, as I would not agree to break off
with you.''
She covered her face. Gus went on. "Milada, you have
no idea of the narrow cruelty of the world's opinion. You
don't knolv how they can heap dirt on beauty . . . those ·
people out there. You live here, I'm your lover, hanging
about in the borde! . . . that's the kindest thing they
say. There are other phrases . . . but I will not repeat
them. It is all nothing, compared to you. I have nothing
in the world that matters but you, Mila."
Gus glowed. He was in his element. The words dictated
by necessity embarrassed him at first; now he had the
sense of being carried by a role successfully played; his
voice rose, full of longing that conquered contempt.
"Nothing in all the world but you, Mila."
Milada listened, pale, her usually calm hands trembling.
"Gus, how terrible that you must suffer so . . . for my
sake. If you want me . . . if you will take me with you
... if you will ever forgive me." There was such dull
misery in her tone that Gus was touched, even beneath
the layers of his satisfied vanity. He brought out from
somewhere his former boyish joviality. "Oh no, dear . . .
 THE RED HOUSE
I don't really mind going away . . . in fact I'm grateful
for the excuse, although I might not have made the de..
cision if left to myself. But now . . . now I am so happy
in the thought of our new life, you and I, and Joszi. Ber.
lin's a great place." Again he caught her in his arms.
"And your father?"
"Hush, not a word more. You must learn to dance
polka and eat cheese cake, so we'll be ready for
the Big Town. Push off those folds of care, do you hear?''
She smiled. "There, that's right. Now we'll celebrate. You
go down and bring up an ice cold bottle of the best fizz
you have in the joint. We'll empty it to our future life.
Then I'll toddle off and you run in on me in my place
at eight o'clock. Joszi'll be there. But don't say a word to
him about what I just told you, eh?"
With a deep sigh of relief, he threw himself back on the
bed. And while Milada went slowly down the stairs, try-
ing to rescue some atom of her usual controlled lucidity
from the blue waves of this moment without time or
space, his strong young voice rang out in a student song,
filling corridors and rooms.
Milada stopped a second to listen, the sleeping girls
stirred, Josephine von Miller started up angrily, with
shaking head.
rao cro oon oTn n no oTmlnl moo o-o ooon oa an ocs oa o

BOOK SIX-SOLITUDE

J,9 o 0 0 OJULO 0 0 0 0 0 OJUl.OJlO..O.Jl9 Q.O OJ) 0..0 0 OJlQ 0 0 U 0 0 U 0...

§1

LoLO, the acquisition from Budweis, was a poor sub-

stitute for conscientious Bina. She was pretty enough,
black curly hair, big black eyes that could sparkle and
gleam in her few occasional happy moments. But for the
rest, she sat about apathetically, speaking only when eli..
rectly addressed, not seeming to care whether any of the
men took interest in her or not. The guests found her
tiresome and left her alone in her corner.
Strange to say, the other girls seemed to like her. She
was quiet and gentle, ready to be of service, lent them
perfumes, toilet articles, lingerie, would do anything de-
manded of her. But she was so useless in the Salon that
Milada found it necessary to expostulate.
"This won't do, my dear. The guests are complaining."
"But I never . . . talk tmpertlnent.
. . . . .''
"No . . . you don't talk at all, that's the trouble. You
sulk. Just as you're doing now. Look up at me. I won't
bite you. Tell me, Lolo, what is the matter?" Very softly,
Milada stroked the blue-black curls, her fingers gently
touching the lowered brow. "Well?,
Suddenly Lolo sank to her knees. "Oh, Miss Milada
"'' .. let me go away . . . let me go. I'll die here . . . I
"· belong here ••• I'm no good."
i
253
254 THE RED HOUSE
"Now listen, girl, don't go on so. You were with Fischer
two years. Don't put on airs."
"But no . . . no . . . I hadn't anyone there but jUst
him . . . just my Karl . . . not another one came near
me, I swear it. And it was just because his captain wanted
me that all the big trouble came. I begged Karl not to
bother, I told him I didn't care a bit for the other. But
he might hurt Karl, make things hard for him. But Karl
wouldn't hear of it. He sent his orderly with money and
railway ticket, that last evening. Then David Fischer
locked me up, and they took the money and the ticket.''
The softly rounded face drew down again in a look of
terror. "I swear it's the truth, Miss Milada . . . the very
truth."
"Now don't cry ... why didn't you speak up at first?
Tell me all about it now, quietly, calmly. How did you
get into the Fischer place anyway? You're from Prague,
aren't you?"
The girl nodded. "Lolo isn't my name at all. I'm Poldi
Schwartza and I'm from Prague. My father . . ." She
broke off.
"Well?"
"Oh please, Miss, don't tell any one. It might lose
him his position, and that would be his death."
Then the story came out. Lola was of respectable par·
entage, well brought up, good education. Her father was
superintendent of an aristocratic mansion in Prague. A
wealthy lady who lived near by took a fancy to the pretty
girl and had her with her continually, as playmate for her
own daughter of the same age.' There was a son, a year
or so older, cadet at the time. Then when the young lady
of the house went off to boarding school, the lonely
mother wanted Poldi to stay with her. Karl was lieutenant
then, and came home often. The inevitable happened;
two young hearts found each other. Poldi's eyes shone ·
 THE RED HOUSE 255
stars, her delicate cheeks flushed happily as she spoke of
those days.
Then . . . came the catastrophe. If she'd realized the
trUth, at first, she wouldn't have said a word to worry
l{arl, just gone away. But she had to tell him why she fell
so miserable all the time; he \Vouldn't let up with ques·
tions. Then he went right to his mother and that finished
it. There was a terrible quarrel, Poldi was locked in her
room. Two days later Karl took her away in a cab and
took her to an elderly woman who was lamed and in a
roll chair. But she was kind to the girl, saw her through
her trouble. Poldi stayed there five months. Karl paid
something for her, and she helped in the housework.
Lame as she was, this Mrs. Kratochlvil was as good as most
doctors and had a lot of fine customers, veiled ladies who
came in fine turnouts.
Then Karl was transferred to Budweis. He couldn't
take her there officially; it was too small a place. So he got
her into the Fischer restaurant, but made it clear that
she was there only as waitress, and had nothing to do with
the other men. Old Fischer promised, by all that was
holy, that so it should be.
Things went all right, until the affair with Karl's cap-
tain. He tried to kiss her, right in the open restaurant,
and insisted all the girls '\Vere just there for the guests. If
Karl could have her, \\hy not he? She begged Karl to
permit it, in fear for his career. But Karl refused,
he'd see the man dead first. And then it happened. Karl
slapped the captain's face, the captain drew his revolver
on Karl, and Poldi fell in a faint. There was a big rumpus,
the Colonel came and threatened to close the Fischer
place. It '\vas terrible. . . .
They locked Poldi in a dark room. That evening the
orderly came with the money and the ticket. Karl wrote
that she should pay Fischer if she Ol\1ed anything, and then
 THE RED HOUSE
leave at once, go back to the Kratochwil woman in Prague
until she heard from him again. He himself might be sent
to Galicia. She cried all night.
Next day young Fischer told her they'd had police in
the house looking for her. And Karl had been arrested.
The police said she was to blame and they knew about
Mrs. Kratochwil too. They hid her in the cellar, until
David Fischer came again and told her his father had paid
a big fine for her and made the police think she was long
since gone away. Karl had been sent to Galicia and would
have to quit the service if he had anything more to do
with her.
"And Miss Milada, I swear it's true. When David
brought me up out of the cellar he stole all my money,
and the ticket and Karl's letter. I told him so, but he only
swore at me, and then locked me up again for two weeks.
If I cried and made a fuss they'd take me down to the
cellar again and not give me anything to eat until I said
I'd be quiet. And then,, she sobbed, "he brought me a
newspaper that said Karl was in Galicia with three months
fortress arrest. Then he brought me here. Oh my poor
father . . . and Karl doesn't know what's happened to
mel And I love him sol If he knew where I was, and all
that's happened to his Poldi . . . there'd be big trouble
for him, for he'd do anything to get me out. So I don't say
anything . . . for his sake."
"Lolo, you've been an awful fool," said Milada. "That
Jew boy most certainly stole your money, and all the
trash he told you about the police was a mass of lies. Why
didn't you make a fuss in the street, or run away from
him, on the train?"
\
"Because then Karl would be discharged from the army.
You see, Fischer knew about Mrs. Kratochwil, too."
lips tightened. "Oh, of course . . . the man
must be protected," she murmured bitterly. "Now listen,
'
 THE RED HOUSE 257
J.,olo, your case is pretty bad. But we can do something to
that David Fischer, at least give him a good scare. We
111ay get a bit of money out of him if we shake him up
bard, and then you're free." Milada paused a moment, her
brows knit in thought... Keep calm now, don't give up.
Remember that you've saved your Karl by your o\vn sac-
rifice. First of all, we'll write to that Kratochwil woman.
Maybe she has a letter from him for you."
Lolo, with a last sob, caught Milada's hands, laid the
cool fingers to her heated brow.
David Fischer's reply was insulting. He knew of no
111oney and if he had found any money he'd have used it
to pay the lieutenant's gambling debts to the cafe. That
Lolo was the worst liar he'd ever met up with; even at
home, and just in her teens, she'd run around with the
boys. The Kratochwil woman said a plenty . . . and if
she cut up now, they'd have a few more words to say.
Milada threw down the letter in disgust. "Just the
same, he did steal the money. And this written consent
from her father which he encloses is a forgery. That'll
get him."
uoh, Mila, Mila, the amount of trouble you're piling
up for these last few weeks," exclaimed Gus in despair.
"Getting Josephine into her convent, selling your business
here, saving Fanni, and now this last affair! You'll see,
we'll never get off. And Joszi already arranging for the
apartment!"
Milada answered: "It isn't as bad as it sounds, Gus.
All the other matters are working smoothly. But I can't
let this rogue get the better of us. If we can prove the
forgery, we've got him hard and fast.'•
"Is the girl giving you the truth?"
"I'd stake my oath on that. Of course, we·11 have to
avoid Sucher, he's in thick with Fischer. But if Commis-
 THE RED HOUSE
sioner Treubruch, or even the Baron . . . oh, what do I
care? Once rm out of this, rm free of worrying about
the police."
uHow are you coming on with the Spizzari woman?"
"Fine. She'll pay cash, pay me, Josephine von Millet
and Kessler." There was a pause. "Gus, wouldn't you like
to talk to that girl?"
Gus shook himself. "Not a bad idea. rm afraid you've
been over-partial.''
"Oh, Gus . . . if you could only understand!"
Gus smiled with fine irony. He might get one on Joszi,
in this matter. "No . . . 'fraid not. It sounds outrageous,
but I don't want to mix in that sort of mess. . .."
"Have you any reasons for that?"
"Among others, I've promised Joszi I wouldn't."
"But Gus . . . isn't is selfish to keep oneself aloof?"
"You idealize me, dearest."
"No." Her tone was warm as she came to him and laid
her hand on his arm. "I saw you at Fanni's bedside, I saw
you caring for the others."
"I'm a physician."
.. It wasn't only that. Will you hear Lola's story?" He
gave up, sat down in an armchair with judicial mien,
and nodded. Lola repeated what she had said to Milada.
The latter gave particular attention to the girl's relations
with her father. She asked Lolo if she could conceive
of her father's giving his permission, his written consent,
to her present life. Lolo's horrified }!>rotest, "No . . . no
. . . he'd kill me first, and then kill himself . . ." rang
true. Both Gus and Milada felt the sincerity. "We'll do
what we can, Milada," said Gus. "We'll send her back to
Prague, and we'll give that little Jew something to re·
member." He sank into intensive thought, smoking cig-
arette after cigarette.
 THE RED HOUSE 259
§2
EVERYTHING moved smoothly at first. Gus' initial visit to
the police station was an amusing and quite agreeable
event. Sucher passed him along to higher officials,
who greeted him politely. "Son of David Brenner? Iron
foundry? Glad to meet you." Nothing much was accom·
plished. "Surely, we will look into the matter." But Gus
came away with a feeling of great self-satisfaction. He had
done a good deed.
While Gus was occupied with the State, Milada con-
cerned herself with the Church. She sought the city head-
quarters of the Cross of Jesus Sisters, to make final ar-
rangements for Josephine von Miller's novitiate, and
eventual initiation into the Order. Memories of her child-
hood days came up, the vision of pale anxious Janka and
the bare convent room ·where "children from such sur-
roundings" could not be taken. It brought a smile at the
ease with which the owner of The Red House was ac-
cepted when the amount of her available capital was
mentioned. A place would be found tor Josephine in a
branch of the Mother House in Triestingtal. A letter of
acceptance would be forwarded her in two weeks at most.
From the day of receipt on, her capital was to be handed
over to the solicitor of the Order. Money smooths the
way even into Heaven. . . .
Two days after Gus' visit to the police station, the Com-
missioner sent for Lolo. Josephine von Miller was dis-
gusted. She \Vas entirely divorced from worldly matters
now, going to confession every day and carefully avoiding
all association \Vith the girls, who \vere greatly amused
thereat. Lolo returned, happy, relieved. They had just
asked a few questions and otherwise all had been polite
and nice to her.
Then, Rbout a week later, came a summons for Jose-
160 THE RED HOUSE
phine von Miller. She went into a tantrum that would
not yield even to Milada's cold common sense. Terror,
annoyance, fear of some hindrance to her plans at the last
moment, quite unnerved her. Finally Milada got her
dressed for the street and commissioned quiet sensible
Karla to accompany her. Josephine, tying her bonnet...
strings with trembling fingers, vowed that if this hour
passed without serious trouble she would leave The Red
House at once and in some quiet corner "free from sin"
prepare for her novitiate.
"Best thing that could happen/' thought Milada.
Josephine returned about noon. her eyes gleaming
ecstatically, a suspicious glow on her thin cheeks. "rm all
right," she triumphed. "But the Day of 1udgment will
dawn for this place. I'm going, now . . . at once...
Not one sensible word could Milada get out of her
Karla couldn't help, for she had been ordered to wait in
Sucher's office while Josephine went in to the Baron, the
Head Commissioner. Then Josephine had gone to see
Mrs. Spizzari, leaving Karla in the cab.
When Gus arrived about three o'clock, The Red House
was in a turmoil. 1osephine von Miller had disappeared.
He laughed, clapped his hands joyously. "Mila, now I
begin to believe in our future. I admit I had some little
tiny doubts. But nowf And she's really gone, left her
books, her cash box, her girls, her marmalades and all the
rest? Great! She didn't say whither?"
"No . . . just made the sign of the Cross in the air,
and went off." Milada was a bit depressed. Early that
afternoon a slender, well-dressed Miss Irma arrived, as
representative of Mrs. Spizzari, to take over the reins of
The Red House, and be instructed by Milada. Nelly Spiz-
zari had been really sorry at Milada's planned departure,
and left the suggestion of an eventual return open. "Youth
 THE RED HOUSE
roust have its way," she whispered to Gus with a wink
that made him writhe in anger.
"Gus, my brain is in a whirl. Josephine has gone, this
new woman is in charge. I am free . . . free. I never
thought it could happen. You cannot dream what this
moment means to me. I am free . . . but . . . were it
not for you, Gus, I would die of this . . . sense of lone-
liness."
He drew her to him, with the air of a protector. "Silly
girl."
"I know only that . . . it will all be a new world, in
which I am only a stranger . . . an alien."
"You feel like a stranger in my life?" He spoke with a
touch of pique.
"And, Gus," a ripple of laughter lightened her voice,
"I really think rn miss her foolishness, the silly quarrels
about nothing at all. Funny, isn't it? But there's some-
thing else back of it. No one needs me, I have nothing to
do. The new girl takes over the housekeeping, Josephine
is safe in her 'state of Blessedness,' Fanni is happy and
Lolo more hopeful. Now what shall Milada do without
cares or worries? I really believe I'm only good for black
days and trouble...
Gus stepped behind her, drew a slip of paper from his
pocket and began to chant, as a pastor making announce-
ments, "Dr. Gustav Brenner has taken an apartment in
Berlin W. Meineckestrasse 8 A, three rooms with dining
alcove, bathroom, kitchen and pantry . . . and so forth.
You'll have enough to do, silly girl, I'll be more trouble
than your girls here. Can you darn stockings? You ought
to see the holes I wear in them! Can you cook souffles?
No? Dreadfull I do so love sweet things." He held her
close.
"Yes, I suppose I'll have to learn to cook." There was a
discreet knock at the door. Miss Irma peeped in. "Miss
 THE RED HOUSE
Milada, will you please go downstairs. Two gentlemen of
the police are there. They asked for Miss von Miller."
Milada knew the two Secret Service men who stood
waiting in the corridor.
"We have a warrant of arrest for Leopoldine Schwana
from Prague, known here as Lolo."
"What's she done?"
"Don't know. Any property of hers is to be sent to
Police Headquarters in Prague. Let her bring just the
most necessary things with her now.''
The sound of voices brought girls from their rooms,
with anxious questions. Lolo came, pale with great fright·
ened eyes.
"This the person? Get yourself dressed, bring just a
few things in a bag. Hurry, we have a wagon down there:•
"She won't need much," laughed the second man
brutally. "She'll wear the State's clothes."
No one else laughed. The girls stared at the pallid
Lolo. whose great eyes were fixed on Milada...Where arc
they taking me?" she gasped. "Not . . . not to Fischer?,.
Milada took her hand. "Be calm, Lolo, and nothing
will happen to you. Will you wait in that room there,
gentlemen? I'll get everything ready. The rest of you go
back to your rooms." Milada held Lolo tight. "Don't be
afraid. It's probably just as witness they want you. Head
up."
Gus stared at the two men who came in. When he saw
Lolo's terror and Milada's ill"concealed anxiety, he took
the high stand, demanded authority for their action, con-
soled Lolo, promised to look into the matter at once. The
men exchanged glances, but were polite. Gus handed
cigarettes around, comforted Lolo once more, as she was
led away. Inwardly he was writhing in annoyance, dis·
gust. His only wish was to get himself and Milada out of
these surroundings as soon as possible. How he hated it
 THE RED HOUSE
all . . . nothing but unpleasantness . . . nasty messes
like thisl
But '\Vhen Milada returned to him, her very real anxiety
wrung from him the voluntary promise to go to the police
station himself the next day. Her quiet acceptance of this
offer, as of something quite usual, annoyed him still more.
''I'm going out. Will you come?"
"No . . . I have more to do here. But, oh Gus . . .
I'm beginning to long to be out of all this . . . to be in
Berlin, and cook and darn socks for you. I see happiness
dawning, at last. I will catch it . . . and hold it. . . ...
Her head dropped to his shoulder. His annoyance van-
ished in the old tenderness as he kissed her brow.

§3
THE second visit to the police station was not a repetition
of the first. Gone was all the cordiality, the suave polite-
ness for the son of rich David Brenner. What hammered
down on poor Gus lVas official thunder at his interference,
and a reprimand, as to a schoolboy, "not to come butting
in about what don't concern him . . . and why should a
kid like him mix in with these messes anyhow .....
More, and much worse.
He did not remember how he got out, smarting from
the insults as if from actual physical pain. He hailed a
passing cab, threw himself into its darkest corner, with
but one thought: he could not go on living after this.
There was only suicide!
The cab halted, Gus ran up the four flights and burst
into Joszi's room, startling that young man at his business
of shaving. When Joszi saw who it was, he made a grimace;
but one look into Gus' distorted face caused him to throw
down his razor and hurry to his friend's side. Gus had
 THE RED HOUSE
flung himself down on the open bed, great sobs tore from
his throat, his whole strong young body shook with them.
"Has the old man taken a hand?" was Joszi's first
thought. "Good Heavens, boy, what's happened? Speak
up, man, don't go on like an hysterical woman." Gus held
out a shaking hand. Joszi caught it firmly, sat down on the
edge of the bed. "Oh, well . . . if this helps you, keep it
,
up. . . .
"Wonder what's up?" his thoughts ran on. "Anything
with Milada? Couldn't have been the old man. He's
arranged all that for its own time. Wonder if Milada did
it herself? Vederemol"
His soapy face itched. He rubbed it, and began to hum
lightly as he always did when in deep thought.
Gus sat up with a jerk, wiped the tears from his eyes
and from his little blond mustache, caught joszi's hand
again and began to tell the story, angry, bitter . . . tell it
all from the beginning . . . the trouble with Lola, Mil-
ada's anxiety and her pleas . . . his own pity for Lolo,
Sucher's incredible impudence, the scene at the station
. . . Dully he closed the recital. "What's left me after
this insult but suicide?"
"Yes, nasty mess," murmured J oszi. "May have un-
pleasant results for you. Wish you hadn't made any official
complaints yourself. 'Veil, I warned you enough."
"But, Joszi, this time it really was. . . ."
"Egomania, dear chap . . . same as ever. Don't you see
how right I was . . how you're tied down with weights
on hands and feet. What all this is leading you into? M wt
lead you into?"
"But what can I do?" mourned Gus.
"Get out of it all as soon as possible. Have nothing
more to do with those women. You mustn't be seen in
that house again. You'll spoil your career, ruin your whole
 THE RED HOUSE
future life. People are talking already . . . you going
around openly with that woman."
"Joszi, you shall not talk that way . . . of her.''
"Don't be a fool. She's honest, she's never tried to be
anything but what she is . . . grew up in that brothel
. . . had a police book since she was sixteen. Now, don't
go off again; I know. She's been in charge of that pack
of whores for the last four years, since the Madam was a
cretin. No, I know what you want to say . . . but the
facts stand. Her profession is stigma . . . she may have
the soul and the intelligence of an Aspasia, but she can-
not throw off the burden of facts.,.
"Joszi, she loves me . . . you can't deny that...
"Why should I? You're a fine attractive lad, and a good
sort beside. But can she be a life-companion for you, with
your patrician ancestry? You, the artist in life? Gus . . .
Gus, don' t forge for yourself. Don't cut off
escape.''
Gus held his head in both hands. "Oh . . . if it was
all over, and done with," he moaned. A thousand hot
endearing words in praise of his beloved came to his lips.
But he suppressed them, writhing the while in remorse
and dull rage.
"Joszi, I didn't know she had . . . the book . . . so
early. I thought of her as a sacrifice . . . for some .. .
Oh Joszi, I can't give her up . . . I can't." It was a groan
of despair.
"Well . . . what are you going to do about it?"
"Yes . . . yes . . . I'll go away."
"With Milada?"
"Don't ask me. What must be done, must be done."
"Wisdom will die with you," remarked Joszi, going
back to his shaving.
"Joszi, don't make jokes when I'm suffering. Don't you
know how it rasps me?''
 THE RED HOUSE
"Too bad, thought you knew me by this time. Well
. . . I'll do anything I can to help . . . carry out your
orders. But it must be your own decision, remember that.
I'll be no one's executioner."
"Just hold fast to this," began Gus in excitement. "If
she hid the truth from me it was because she loved me. I
know nothing of her life, I never lvanted to ask . . .
Vanity, I suppose, weakness. But I do know that she is
more intelligent, better, nobler in heart and mind than
all the respectable girls of the sort we're supposed to
marry. If feeling sets the standard, no one is more worthy
to be my wife."
Joszi mixed his lather. "Got to let him talk it out," he
thought, and began to hum again.
Gus sat with head in hands, murmuring: "Can't set
foot in that house again, that's clear. She must get out at
once . . . burn all bridges behind her. Oh, if only I
weren't so nervous . . . I can't stand any more scenes.
Ies the heat, I'm not used to staying in town over
summer.''
Joszi merely hummed.
"I'm going out to the mountains, that will bring me
back to sanity. Shall we take a hike over the Harz, J oszi?"
"Can't give you my hand on it, it's soapy. But I'm with
you, after you arrange your worldly affairs."
Gus rose. "Berlin stands, of course." His eyes held a
plea. "Let that stand, Joszi, I beg of you. I'll start for
Munich at once, without saying good-by to Milada. I'll
do that much for you. But don't take her from me for-
ever. You write her, tell her everything, tell her how
upset I am, tell her I've given my word of honor not to
set foot in that house again. Yes, I'm giving it to you now.
Tell her I'm expecting to see her in Berlin . . . tell her
what this decision cost me. . . ."
 THE RED HOUSE
"Sure," replied Joszi through the soap. "Schiller's
Robbers, Act 1, scene 1 •• • •"
Gus could not help laughing. He felt much better, re·
leased. The tardy decision lifted the burden. Five fifty·five
express to Munich, good friends there, a pretty cousin
too . . . miles away from all these unpleasant matters.
"I'll tell them in the office to give you money for
expenses, Joszi. You know he's always generous in such
matters."
"Quite perfect."
"When do you think you can meet me?"
ccin four or five days, I hope."
Gus' eyes shone, he was happy again. "Say, old man,
want to take Oily to Berlin?"
Joszi made a gesture of protest. "Are you quite mad?
Oily will be eliminated by tomorrow evening at latest,
painlessly. There are nice girls everywhere."
Gus doused his face in the washbowl. "Oh, this is my
first really happy moment for months." He brushed his
stiff blond hair, his little mustache, took up his panama.
"I'm off for home, to settle the financial part of it. See
you later."
"Get out now, or I'll sure cut myself."
When Joszi had finished shaving, he sat down and com-
posed the following epistle.

Dear Mr. Brenner:

The suggestions made in our last interview must be
somewhat changed in the carrying out, owing to quite
unexpected happenings. There is much I can tell you
personally; but will only say now that Gus, who had
slipped into an unpleasant complication, has decided
to leave at once for Munich. I will meet him there in
four or five days. This is the present situation. There
was no farewell, but the important plans remain un-
t68 THE RED HOUSE
changed. There is to be a reunion in September in
Berlin, and an apartment taken as agreed.
There is great danger in this Berlin project, in my
opinion. This absolutely straightforward, honest per..
son, alluring by the shadow of a stigmatized life, will
gain immense influence on Gus' easily moved, loyal and
affectionate temperament if she is seen in the frame of
respectable domesticity. The end of the adventure will
be an unhappy marriage . . . without a doubt. We
must act at once and cut through the first link of a
chain which, later, will be too strong to break.
The present situation offers excellent opportunity.
Although I must emphasize that the break can come,
effectively, only if staged by the second party. I ask you
therefore, to send me at once the sum of money agreed
upon. Remember this party of the second part is well..
to-do . . . that is an important factor in making your
offer. Will send you word, as usual, when I can meet
you in your chess club to give you the final details.
Respectfully yours
Joszi Wallner.
The letter was addressed to Mr. David Brenner.
From the cafe Joszi brought home another letter:
Mila, beloved, Joszi will bring you this hastily
scrawled letter, with a thousand affectionate farewell
greetings.
Mila, I must go away . . . must go without you, my
own one, without even seeing you to say good-by. I
dared not see you, my nerves were at the breaking
point. Joszi will tell you what has happened. Do not
reproach yourself, it is better this way. This experience,
brutal as it was, has cleared up many matters for me.
 THE RED HOUSE
I will send you every address. The first is Munich,
Hotel Residence.
Mila, I demand-it is my unshakable wish-that you
leave The Red House at once, for some home more
worthy of your new life. I have sacrificed much for your
sake, Joszi will tell you. It will take me some time to
find myself again. Good-by, beloved girl. Head up.
Things look black now, but there is Berlin for the
future, and happy days. Farewell, my Mila, I kiss your
gray eyes, that have so often mirrored my love.
Write me at once, to Munich.
Ever yours,
Gus.
A third letter was addressed to Milada:
Miss Milada:
By urgent request of our mutual friend, Gus, I am
asking you to call at my room tomorrow forenoon.
Should you not be free then, I will wait all day for you.
Au revoir,
Joszi.
§4
THE day was cold, and heavy with rain. An annoying
drizzle penetrated Milada's light clothing, chilling her.
She was pale and weary-eyed. Joszi closed the window at
once, on her arrival. He shook his head, disapproving.
"Why haven't you an umbrella?"
"I forgot it, I came away in a hurry. What has hap-
pened? Where is Gus?"
"Read this letter first, then I'll answer all questions."
.. He's gone away?" Milada's voice seemed sinking into
an abyss. She stared at Joszi for several seconds, then took
the Jeuer, opened it. Her brows drew together as she readt
 THE RED HOUSE
throwing shadows on her face. Scarce half through it, she
went back to the beginning again, and re-read it with care.
"I do not understand this letter," she said. Her glance
held the same severity that steeled her tone.
"It was written in haste, and in excitement. You may
understand something of the reason. Gus had a most
pleasant experience in the police station . . . because of
your girl there." Joszi told the story as he had it from Gus
the day before.
She listened, her eyes turned inward. "Then that lVas
why?" she said after a pause. "But why did he go away?
Why did he not come to me first? Tell me about it? It
would have been the natural thing to do. Was he ashamed
of it?"
"Miss Milada, will you try to think yourself into the
soul of a man with over-sensitive nerves? This scene de.
pressed Gus terribly. Why, he couldn't even eat his usual
slices of roast beef . . . he worried over a couple of
spoonfuls of soup. I was seriously alarmed."
Milada looked at him oddly. "And you're joking?"
"Perhaps not. But won't you sit down? You do not look
well. Can't I give you a cup of tea? No? Then a cigarette?
No? Very well, then . . . where were we? No, for you, or
for me, a disturbed dinner..comfort would be of little
significance. But for Gus . . . that is different. It was I
advised him to go away . . . for my sake and for yours.
As long as his present mental condition lasted he would
have been quite unbearable. When we see him again, he'll
be the same sweet boy as before. Miss Milada, it was
hardly wise of you to pull him into such affairs. What do
you think you can make of him . . . with his sensitive
nature?,
Eyes on the floor, Milada replied slowly, "I thought he
would show himself a man . . . up there . . . and stick
it out. The same sort of thing has happened to me more
 THE RED HOUSE
than once. I dare not protest. But Gus is a free man. Why
should he knuckle under like a schoolboy to that Com-
missioner . . . when in all the houses we know what a
crook and exploiter he is? I cannot see why Gus did not
come to me. I could have told him that we could get the
girl off with money . . . this isn't a case of a spoiled
mood, it concerns a human existence."
"Yes, my dear girl. But in war a general must know the
right people to put in the front lines. Do you think, Miss
Milada, that you picked the right man for that post? No,
I am not joking no1v. Sit down, let us have a serious talk.
"Our friend Gus, now enjoying a schooner of brown
beer and a good schnitzel, is a charming fellow, a gentle-
man, a seeker for beauty, an artist in life. He is everything
except . . . the sort of man upon whom one may place
ugly and burdens, whom one may plunge into
the brutal, darker side of life. I've been annoyed at you
sometimes, Milada. You spoiled his mood, all the things
he saw . . . there . . . hurt him, made him unhappy.
This eternal self-sacrificing irritated him, made him
cross, disagreeable . . . even he, the most delightful of
comrades.
"Gus would throw a thousand gulden to a beggar with-
out another thought. But he cannot bear to come into
personal contact with what is ugly or depressing. I admit
that I, even I, underrated him just now, though. I thought
he would take himself off much sooner . . . but he loves
you, that holds him. I was unjust."
"1 ust what do you mean, Mr. . . ?"
"1oszi will do. The other name is only for international
conferences."
''Mr. 1oszi. What is it that I have asked of Gus that is
so terrible?"
Joszi raised his hands in protest. "Oh, you sweet inno-
cence! Don't you realize what a shock it must have been
 THE RED HOUSE
to his nerves to see the naked structure of love, of the cou-
ception of sweet femininity, before his eyes, day by day?
It isn't the usual thing, you know. Most men pay, then go
off. We don't ponder over such existences. Gus is super..
sensitive . . . super-sentimental if you will. He must have
suffered actual physical pain at times . . . when you were
not a ware of it.
"Let us be frank; unfortunate human beings are un-
esthetic. When Gus was three years old he delighted his
mother by refusing to play with a little girl of his own age,
because she was lame. 'I'll give her my hobby horse . . .
but she must go a'\vay.' This incident was praised so often
that it became a life-rule for him. Delightful, charming,
a social favorite . . . but . . . dear lady, don't ask that
the rose shall have the caustic strength of the onion! I've
known Gus over twelve years. When he \Vas about four-
teen, his lungs were affected and they sent him to the
Riviera, and sent me along to amuse him. We have lived
door to door ever since, as it were. But I am always care..
ful not to tear away the delicately wrought cobweb of his
pleasure in life. An inconsiderate, an ugly suicide would
sadly upset his enjoyment of a drowsy summer afternoon.
No . . . don't smile so bitterly; each to his own polver
. . . the bird sings, the frog hops, that is nature's law.
It is dangerous to push a disturbing finger into Nature's
mechanics."
He lit a cigarette. "In a word, dear lady, Gus is what
we students call a Philistine. The word has now nothing
of heroic significance about it. It connotes law and order
as a religion; the sort of man who after the maddest night
orgy will carefully wind his watch on going to bed. A man
who measures his a hili ty by the yardstick, regulates his
impulses, lights his life's pathway from beginning to end
with the searchlight of calculating Now,
 THE RED HOUSE
in :he light of the foregoing, suppose you read his letter
. ,,
agatn.
She obeyed, read the letter carefully from start to finish,
then looked up. "Well?" murmured Joszi.
She did not answer for a moment, then the words came
slow, veiled. "I understand. I know now; it was a mistake.
I erred . . . my error, as usual. Give me time to . . .
realize." Her voice died away, she covered her eyes, her
head drooped.
"Milada, you are an intelligent woman. You will under-
stand when I lvarn you not to despise this Philistine type.
You will find it often of great value to you. I do not knol¥
your plans, your life aims. But remember this: when you
would use human beings to further these aims, remember
that we humans have a dual personality, a human brain
and an animal body. Objectively, you can recognize, and
enjoy, the appealing artlesmess of Gus' character, the in-
teresting spectacle o£ his ingenious egotism. As instance,
just see how cleverly this Berlin project is put together.
"We-you, Oily and I-are to go there at his expense.
We'll have an apartment with piano, full board and
tuition. Sooner or later, a lieutenant of the Guard will
appear on Oily's landscape. And all this is just a mosaic
background for Gus' own comfort, for his enjoyment of
his leading part as happy lover. He takes us along. Does
he ask how we feel about it? And, when this one glass is
drained, only half maybe, it can be emptied and a fresh
bottle opened.
"As you read in that letter, Gus loves you, he will not
give you up. Now, what are we going to do about it? Are
we going to Berlin?"
Milada,s head came up slowly, her eyes met the quiet,
penetrating gaze of a reader of the human heart.
"You will, maybe," she said. "But Berlin holds nothing
,
• • . f or me.
274 THE RED HOUSE
"Ah . . . would you rob our friend of a happy cer. .
tainty? You lose nothing by it . . . think it over well."
"You are only mocking me, Mr. Joszi. You are so much
cleverer than I am. You know that I gave you the right
answer, even though I do not yet know how I . . . shall
end ure . .. 1"t.U
His eyes drooped, he was embarrassed. "No . . . really.
I did not think you would . . . make it so easy for me."
He paced the room, avoiding her eyes. Then he halted
before her. "Frankness for frankness. Gus really is quite
mad about you . . . he dreams of this reunion. But there
are others, near to him, who do not like the situation. If
you but halfway understand it-you see I am perfectly
frank now-he can soon be quite free of any decision or
wish of yours. Of course I cannot say just what effect it
would have upon him, at first, but that need not come
into the discussion, nor influence you in any way. Gus
loves you, more than ever. Consider all the possibilities,
and then anslver me."
She sat silent. He went to the table, lit a cigarette.
"One question," she said suddenly, "but tell me the full
truth. Why must Gus go to Berlin?"
"Why? Well, first of all, to please you. You're to study
medicine, or something like that. I understand that con-
ditions in the house in which you now live are becoming
unbearable.,
ccwas there no other compelling reason for him to leave
this city . . . this country? I happen to know . . . cer. .
tain facts. Was it not necessary for him to go away?,
"Necessary? Oh, that fool bet he made with me? That
is of no importance."
"But his word of honor? As Officer of Reserve."
"Gus? Officer?"
Milada finished quickly. "He gave his word of honor to
 THE RED HOUSE
his colonel that he would leave the country or break off
with me."
Joszi wheeled, and stared at her. "His colonel? What
absurdity is this? Gus never served, he has no commis-
sion." Her eyes widened, he went on, "I told you, his
lungs are weak, that freed him from military duty. What
is the matter?"
"Nothing." She sat down again. "It's •.. it's all right
now."
Joszi guessed, "Gus told you. . . ."
She nodded.
"Oh, what colossal vanity . . ." Joszi flushed hotly, sup-
pressed the 04th that rose to his lips. Here he was plead-
ing in the name of a man who would tell such lies to make
himself important. "Yes, I believe you now . . . I believe
you are ready to give me a sincere answer. Hm. Well, I
have a bit more to say that may interest you. First of all,
we have a proposition to make to you.''
"We? You mean . . . Gus?"
"No. Gus' father. . . ."
"Oh . . . Gus' father? Forgive me . . . it is all so . . .
so overwhelming. I cannot quite follow. What has Gus'
father to do with you and with me?"
..With you? That should be clear. He really is inter-
ested in his son, you know. And with me? Well, he and I
have been in league for some time. What will you think
of me now, Milada? Well, can't be helped . . . here it is:
the old man pays me as intermediary. Gus wouldn't let
him come anywhere near him . . . and the old man
clings to him . . . odd touch of sentimentality in this
iron nature. You may believe me or not but old Brenner
is a Man. Gus is not one-tenth of him. In fact we're all
weaklings beside him. Well, here's the proposition . . .
but first of all, won't you let me give you a cup of tea?
You're positively green and your teeth are chattering. You
 THE RED HOUSE
simply must take that tea. Everything else afterward. Sit
down here on the sofa, make yourself comfortable. Wrap
this old dressing gown around you. Good heavens, you're
soaked through. There, is that better?"
Milada, in the sofa comer, snuggled in Joszi's old gown,
sat absolutely quiet. As warmth stole over her chilled
body it brought a weariness that was almost as though
wine-sodden. She had not closed her eyes for thirty-six
hours, had scarcely known one quiet minute all that time.
The police affair, Lola's troubles, Josephine von Miller's
disappearance, the worry over Gus' non-appearance, then
Joszi's letter, and now this . . . Complete inability to
absorb any more anxiety came over her suddenly, lulling
her in blissful calm. Joszi's humming purred through the
room like a boiling kettle.
"Here's the tea. A bit strong, but all the better."
,.How kind you arel" said Milada gratefully.
"Why, sure. I'm no Pontius Pilate. Girl, you impress
me. Not merely because of your yielding; it was the man-
ner of it. And it was just the right moment too . . . I'm
thinking only of you now, honest."
He pushed a tray of little cakes towards her, took a
cigarette himself. "If you'd known Gus' mother, the
milieu in which he grew up, it might all be easier to
understand. Why on earth a mathematically trained
philosopher, a cold hard business head like David Bren-
ner, ever married that woman . . . well, that's the sort
of thing that never can be explained. He knew too little
about women, I fancy. She was . . . yes, beside him, she
was nothing but a bad joke. Silly, stubborn, artificial,
living in an unreal world of vague dreams, a distorted
spoiled shred of humanity . . . and a thing like that felt
herself too good for a David Brenner! She should have
been in an asylum. It's a wonder Gus ever survived her
ideas about diet, child-training; must have been mnre of
 THE RED HOUSE 277
the old man's nature about him than we think. But when
that fool woman decided that her boy was the ideal
medium and wanted him trained for 'seances,' then David
rebelled. There was a terrible scene, Gus saw the finish
of it and it turned him against his father for ever. But it
saved him from the madhouse. Gus' attitude towards his
father is cruel . . . wish you knew David Brenner as I do.
Feel better? You look it.
"Well . . . we offer you twenty thousand gulden in
cash, the moment you hand me your own farewell letter
to Gus."
Milada flushed hotly in sheer amaze. "Twenty thou-
sand? All that money . . . for me?"
The money . . . Joszi wondered, doubted a moment.
"David Brenner is accustomed to dealing in big figures.
Anything less would have seemed like an insult to his
,
son.
"But . . . I don't understand. I told you I will not go
to Berlin. Why should he pay me this huge sum?''
Joszi shook his head, ashamed of his doubt...Yes, you
said . . . but how about Gus? He will not let you go so
easily. And we know how much he means to you. We must
have security that the break will be definite!'
She cut in hastily . . . "And you trust me? Suppose I
take the money and then. . . ?"
"No, Milada, you would not do that. But anyway, we
are asking for something written . . . a letter that shall
wound Gus' vanity so deeply that . . . we have nothing
more to fear from him. Something along this line: 'At my
own request I have received from your father, David Bren-
ner, the sum of 2o,ooo gulden, in return for which I have
pledged myself to have nothing more to do with you, at
any time. Our association is considered by all concerned
to be detrimental to your life and career.' How about
that? Take your own time to think it over."
 THE RED HOUSE
He "vent to his desk, laid out a sheet of paper, then
resumed his silent pacing of the room.
"Mr. 1oszi, may I . . . ask a promise?" He halted,
nodded. "I feel, and it lames me, that you merely wanted
to bring me to this point. When your mission is fulfilled;
your interest in me lvill fade. In less than ten minutes I go
away from here, beggared as never before in my life.
Sounds strange, doesn't it, when I shall be carrying a for-
tune with me? But, yesterday and today, all that I truly
own, here in my soul, has fallen into bits. Home troublo
. . . I will not bore you with them, but . . . my home
passes into strange hands, the girls have turned against
me, Horner, my teacher, has been taken to the Insane
Asylum . . . and now comes this with Gus. I cannot find
myself yet, cannot find life-values. Mr. 1oszi, you have
said so much that was good and true to me today . . . do
not send me away, even when you have my letter. There
is much I want to ask you, so much you can say to help
me. You might save me, give me some foundation on
which to build up my life afresh. Then I can and then
I will disappear from your orbit."
1oszi had put on his Pan's face, wrinkled in a hundred
folds and creases. He stared down at her. "Stay, of course,
as long as you wish. All night if you like. I can sleep on
the sofa." She caught his hand, bent over it. He snatched
it away, grouching tenderly. "Silly girl!"
"Now I am ready to write that declaration." Milada
rose and crossed to the desk. The pen did not waver in
her hand. She wrote:
"At my own request I have received the sum of
20,ooo gulden from your father. In return for this I
have pledged myself never to see you again. I beg you,
Gus, to let me keep to my promise for both our sakes.
I have done this for two reasons. The money will
 THE RED HOUSE 279
help me in carrying out ideas that are more to me than
you and your love can ever be. And, secondly, I am
thinking of your future, which will be safer and hap-
pier if I disappear from your life.
Milada.''

Joszi read it, nodded. "Good, just enough." He sealed

it in an envelope, Milada wrote the address. She did not
look at the check Joszi handed her. Her trembling fingers
slipped it into her little handbag.

§5
TWILIGHT shadows lay over the little room. Milada's
voice had long since died away when Joszi rose heavily
and lit the oil lamp. He drew a worn book from his
pocket.
"Take this, Milada, go into solitude with it. 'The starry
heavens over me, and within me the moral law'; these are
Kant's two eternal verities. Life can be lived, with them
... No, Milada, you cannot help these unfortunates, nor
can you . . . you alone, in your lifetime, do away with
prostitution. But there is one thing you can do; that your
own life has taught you.
"You told me just now the story of your childhood, the
terrible isolation and forlornness of the little child tossed
about between men who pay and women who paint . . .
women, one of whom is its mother. There are more such
children of prostitutes. Save them . . . cut the teeth of
tomorrow, already open for the new recruit to misery.
There is no help for the adult prostitute, but you can
save her child.
"You have money enough. This work is not a utopia,
scattering your powers. Found an asylum for such outcast
children; if you but give one of them back to life, you
280 THE RED HOUSE
will have made acceptable sacrifice to the God in your
own soul. Do you not see that?"
He paused. The little lamp enclosed them in a roseate
circle. Stars peeped through the window, Heaven seemed
so near. Milada sat quiet in her sofa corner. Then she
spoke, as if to herself.
"Now I understand my life. It was unreal, shadowy, but
the line was there, the line I must follow. All that came
to me, my youth, The Red House, Josephine von Miller,
Homer, Gus, and these hours with you, it was all to point
the way . . . to show me the path I may go. I thank you."
She rose. "They need me at home." She took both his
hands. "Good-by, and . . . thanks. . . ."

§6
Miss JosEPHINE voN MILLER-GEROLD was nearly done
with the things of this world. In her little room on the
outskirts of the city, she spent her hours in prayer, in
searchings of soul, in confession, alvaiting eagerly the time
of her final entrance into the convent. Milada went to
see her every day, with an odd lingering attachment to
this absurd old woman. Even in her state of preparation
for the sisterhood, Josephine did not belie the habits of A
lifetime. She tried to worm out of Milada how much
money she had, how much Nelly Spizzari was to spend on
improvements, and many more such mundane matters.
Then some days she would be entirely holy, already the
nun.
"What are you going to do, Milada? Maybe I can beg
them for a place for you."
"Maybe later. But now I want rest, solitude. I wish I
knew of some little place in the mountains."
Josephine roused. "Oh, I have . . . just what you want.
Listen, Milada, if you stay by me till they take me in, I
 THE RED HOUSE
have a little house way up in the big hills. His Reverence
gave it to me, for my declining years. I'll rent it to you
cheap."
"A little house in the mountains?" asked Milada.
''Wouldn't you sell it to me?"
A letter to a la\vyer in Steiermark was dispatched, and
in a week more Milada was the owner of the alpine cot-
tage, "Hill-Top." "Four rooms down stairs, four up, and
a little garden with a green fence and flowers. And you'll
hear what they think of Miss Fini up there."
Josephine \vaxed enthusiastic. But when Milada came
next day, she was gone, leaving a note.

"I go into the life celestial. Live piously and you

will live well.
Sister Josephine."

Notice had come early that morning that a place was

free for her in the convent. Milada felt an odd sensation
of renewed loneliness. Nothing held her now. She smiled
politely at Mrs. Spizzari's suave,
"There's always a place for you in The Red House."
But she shook her head. She wanted rest . . . solitude.

§7
DEEPEST silence, soundless solitude.
The high plateau lay broad, open, the trees crept up on
it from all sides, near enough that the rustlings of their
mighty crowns was music in the little house. Great peaks
lay in snow, blushing under Autumn sunsets.
Stillness everywhere, in the dying year. The kine in
their stables, the high pastures empty, the forest too damp
for hunters.
Solitude.
 THE RED HOUSE
Two hours' drive straight up from the little station,
then a walk of half an hour brought Milada to her haven.
Old Katel, ninety, but still active, \Velcomed her. The
fire burned briskly in the low rooms.
Katel warned the "city lady" not to fear the storm even
though it did "howl so bad" around the house at night.
Nor the bats that beat at the windows with their wings.
Two other old women lived in a nearby cabin; one of
them trudged up and down the last steep ascent each
day with provisions, or firewood. Simple souls in the little
upland village half an hour away respected the wish of
the "city lady" for quiet.
Then came the snow. Three days it fell. It built a wall
around the little house, shutting out the world beyond
Milada's eyes, habituated now to great vistas, closed in
again, as she sat in her room and read.
Evenings, she and the three old women sat by the great
fire in the main room. One night Milada began to speak
of her project. She told the eager listeners of little chil-
dren in the great city who knew only bitter need, ugliness,
fear. She told them how she herself had suffered, how her
own soul's hunger taught her what she might do for
others. Katel was fire and flame for the project; the othet
two worried that they might lose their refuge. But when
Milada assured them that she needed their help for the
new "Home," they too warmed to the idea.
And when the sky cleared and the snow hardened to
permit snow-shoes, the little lawyer through whom Milada
had negotiated the purchase of the house came up to draft
plans. "You can't begin to build until May up here," he
said. But by that time his friend, builder of similar insti-
tutions, could go over the plans and have all ready. The
lawyer marveled at Milada's practical knowledge of costs
and other business matters.
The rain came, and in the midst of it a little boy with
 THE RED HOUSE
a message. A letter for the city lady, down there in the
post-office; she'd have to write something before she got it.
Milada shuddered. The world was so far away, she did
not want to return to it, or receive any message from all
that lay beyond the encircling guardian peaks.
But she made her way down the mountain side, amused,
in spite of a premonition of trouble, at the elaborate
pedantry of the village postmaster. "It's been here two
weeks . . . but we didn't know no one of that name,"
was the excuse.
The letter was from Karla, badly written, amusingly
spelled. But Milada bit her lips as she read it. Karla her-
self was now waitress in a Prater restaurant. But in .The
Red House things were going badly; orgies, scandals, the
girls kept prisoners . . . "I'm hopin you will get this and
answer and wasn't it too bad about Rosina? right out of
the window into the court. your Karla."
Rosina . . . a simple child . . . what had happened?
And she here so happy . . . chasing ideas, plans . . .
letting the individual perish hopelessly. Wasn't that what
Joszi had said?
Her duty lay down there, she must see what was going
on . . . The little lawyer came to the station to say
good-by, regretfully. The gray late November day closed
down on them. Milada consoled him; she would come
back.
The train moved off. Her eyes sought the trees, the
peaks beyond, the lowering heavens.
Down the mountainside moved the little train, carry-
ing Milada to the closing link in the circle of her destiny.
1r0 oOT6 cro m11 cnnnt olS ooom lfo oo1fi"To oooooocs ooera orr

B 0 0 K S E V E N - T H E SP I Z Z A R I
SYSTEM

jl U 0 QJlO 0 0 0 0 0 QJlO OJULQ OJUlO 0 0 OJlQ o OJUULQ 0 0 0 0 0J1 0 0 0 0 Ill.

§1
MRS. had more energy and less con
NELLY SPIZZARI
science than all previous owners of The Red House.
She was wise in every trick of the trade and she practised
them undisturbed by any hint of scruple. Her pretended
comradeship won the girls at first, and then caught them
in an iron net. She played favorites; she crushed out
every gleam of independent will; she took their clothes
and valuables to put under lock and key; she cut them off
from all communication with the outer world.
Herself brutal and false, she encouraged intrigues, gos-
sip, tale-bearing, fearing only too great a harmony among
the girls which might be turned to her own disadvantage.
Her years of white slave trade had taught her that every
last bit of will power must be crushed out in these human
"wares" if the traffic were to yield a real profit.
Under the Spizzari System The Red House speedily lost
its unique position among establishments of its kind.
Rapidly it sank to the lowest grade. Mrs. Spizzari had no
understanding of, nor indeed any use for, the atmosphere
of middle class respectability which had been the main
attraction in The Red House. She had no use for girls
who would have fitted in such surroundings, for she de-
284
 THE RED HOUSE
rnanded of them services that the former Red House in-
tnates, down to the most reckless of them, would have
refused with shudders. Mitzi alone, as false and intriguing
as Spizzari herself, remained of the former staff.
Mrs. Spizzari, her whipper-in, a bent old Jev.ress by the
name of Bacher, and several lads of the Apache class,
went out into the highways and byways and gathered in
the sweepings of a city's streets. In The Red House Salon
were now circus riders and acrobats with limbs too stiff
to keep on working; cast-off music hall singers, stranded
servant girls, the lowest grade of street walkers and
nymphomaniac women of good family who kissed "Mama
Nelly's" hand and were happy when she let them stay for
the evening.
One pet enterprise of the energetic Spizzari was to buy
very young girls from inhuman parents who gloated over
the purchase price, whether as straight cash or a monthly
rent. With these innocent unfortunates in her power Mrs.
Spizzari would perform all sorts of manipulations, oper-
ating on them herself, cutting and stitching. She had a
special technique of virgin-exploitation, which she man-
aged to keep hidden from the medical inspector and
which, thus far, had escaped the notice of the police
authorities.
She kept no "accounts," taking the girls' money by
force if necessary, giving them presents and drinks now
and then, promising an accounting which never came.
The inmates of The Red House, when she took it over,
had been accustomed to a decent and just accounting even
under the miserly Miss Josephine. And Milada's term of
office had made them feel that they had some human
rights. They rebelled, there were hideous scenes, but
eventually Nelly realized it was better to get rid of all
that "sort." She had a way of "getting rid" of the girls that
added to the horrors of the new Red House system. A man
t86 THE RED HOUSE
known as Stratti, whom she called her "man of affairs,''
a tall thin Mephistophelian individual, would appear,
sometimes in the night, come up to the girl chosen for
"disappearance," go off with her as if he were a client.
In her room she n·as forced to dress hurriedly and drive
off with him, no one knew whither. As a matter of fact he
took her to the station, gave her a ticket to any chance
town and some money and let her go. But the manner of
taking-off drew a nimbus of horror around him, and a
casual remark by Mrs. Spizzari, "Stratti will be here to-
night," set the girls staring at one another in shivering
query as to who the next victim might be.
The new system brought consequences within a few
weeks, a nasty affair which might have brought on a
serious conflict with the authorities had not the energetic
Nelly known the ropes so well.
Rosina, a slim seventeen-year-old child, her life lvrecked
by seduction at fifteen and an illegal operation, had been
brought to The Red House by the St. Polten widow, who
finally left her there. Under Milada's kind and just treat-
ment Rosina had seemed just a jolly laughing happy
schoolgirl. Her sub-normal intelligence had wiped out all
unpleasant memories. But under the Spizzari system
Rosina became irritable, intriguant, unreliable. Con-
tinual punishment of all kinds was brought to bear on
her still unbroken spirit, with the result that, in an un-
guarded moment, she threw herself from the lvindow of
the room in which she had been locked. It cost Nelly
many visits to the police station and much money to hush
up a bad scandal.
§2
THE customary afternoon quiet lay over The Red House
when Milada arrived.
There were ten girls there, who slept in two large
 THE RED HOUSE
rooms, the windows barred and locked. While the girls
were asleep the doors were opened for ventilation, and
guarded outside by the useful Mrs. Bacher, at one outlet,
and the janitor at the other.
Mrs. Spizzari greeted Milada cordially, took her to her
room, furnished with Milada's own belongings, kept for
her possible return. Then, proudly, she took her guest
around the house, showing all the improvements. Two
new "Turkish" rooms adjoined the Salon, and beyond
them was a small chamber with entrance cleverly hidden
behind a large oil painting. Nelly Spizzari's one good eye
twinkled as she worked the mechanism and slid open
the secret door.
In the charming little room that now stood revealed
sat Miss Irma, the new housekeeper, beside a divan on
which lay a little girl of about twelve, fast asleep and
clothed only in a thin pink silk chemise.
Milada's brows rose. "Who is that?" she asked.
"Lisl. You may think she's good business but you're
mistaken. Her father's a born blackmailer . . . and she's
always making a fuss. Is she quiet now?" she asked Irma,
one of her chief "favorites.,.
"Still impudent.''
"This is the card room," Nelly explained to Milada.
uBut I'm keeping this kid in here now. Men like the
hokus-pokus, and then her father can't find her when he
comes in, soused to the gills."
She led the way into ihe upper story where were a
series of rooms done beautifully in various colors, bed-
rooms, with bath attached. "For the guests, evenings."
"Are the girls content in those dormitories upstairs?"
asked Milada when they returned to the office.
"Why not? They can talk and laugh all they want to.
Why should they have a room to themselves? Beggar-
 THE RED HOUSE
pack! No, my child, I can manage that sort and don't you
forget it."

Two hours later the girls were shaken into wakefulness

by Mrs. Bacher and ordered down into the Salon for coffee
to meet the "rich" former housekeeper.
Milada studied them \vith growing concern. Little Lisl,
freezing in her thin garment, far below police age . . .
the others, worn out, faded, crushed, the sort of thing The
Red House had never before harbored. One or the other
might look passable at night, made up, coiffed and
gowned. But now it was a pitiable sight. Miss Irma, fresh,
handsome, and Mitzi, still attractive, were the only ones
who could remind a one-time client of The Red House of
its better days.
There were two stout women with bloated faces and
dyed red hair who kissed Mrs. Spizzari's hand devoutly
as she handed them their coffee. These poor creatures had
not had a roof over their heads for many a day when she
found them, worn-out street-walkers, shuddering before
the last incarnation into the ranks of public lavatory
attendants. Nelly took them in and used them for "pro-
ductions" in a mirror-walled room, performances of such
unnatural viciousness that few endured them for long.
"Where's Julie?" asked Nelly. "I'm always scared when
I don't see her."
., Asleep, I guess," answered a girl.
"Go get her, Bacher," commanded Nelly.
As Mrs. Bacher took up her bunch of keys and opened
the Salon door, a tall, thin, pallid woman came in, staring
glassily around the room. "No one here yet?" she asked,
settling her big hat on her dull brown hair.
No one paid any attention to her. The bell downstairs
began to ring, the girls were called out one by one, busi-
ness was beginning early. A consumptive looking cham
 THE RED HOUSE
bermaid brought in a basket of clean lingerie, the girls
changed in the Salon, rouged at the wall mirrors, passed
around the perfume atomizer and were ready for work.
No one paid any attention to the tall woman sitting on
the divan. She was a well-to-do nymphomaniac of good
family, diseased through and through, paying well for her
right to come here and pick up a man too drunk to be
repelled by her appearance. One of the truly Unfortunate,
marked by cruel Fate. Nelly didn't want her there, but
as she had money the police did not care, so The Red
House owner tolerated her, as did the girls whom slie
tipped generously to pass on some inexperienced foreigner
or half-grown boy.

Nine o'clock. Mrs. Bacher shuffled through the hall and

opened the dormitory door . . . the "barracks, as the
girls called it.
"] ulie . . . Miss Julie/' she called. No answer. She
went in, looked down at a recumbent figure half buried
in the bedclothes. "Asleep as usual. Just a lump of flesh.
Get up, you 0 • you're wanted downstairs."
•

She hammered on the girl's back. "Silly idea of Spiz-

zari's," she grouched. "Thinks she's got to have one coun-
try girl here. This one mus ha' come from the cow stable.,..
Julie yawned, tried to sit up. Mrs. Bacher's thin fists
hammered at her breast, disturbing dreams of early morn-
ing cool and musical cock-crow at rising time, at home
. . . home.
"Say, you . . . if the Madam knew this 0 I told her
••

you were in the blue room. Say, I never did see anyone
sleep as you can.''
Julie shook her head, sat up. The pink silk chemise fell
from her shoulder, revealing a white-skinned exquisitely
youthful body of wholesome fullness. Her throat was
strongly built, browned by air and sunshine. In the round
tgo THE RED HOUSE
peasant face shone glass-clear blue eyes. Tumbled blond
curls spoiled the effect. "Get your hair fixed, come on
down, the strange lady's there, the rich one. Here's your
clean clothes." She went out, Julie stared after her.
Words danced about her benumbed brain like buzzing
flies. She· d have to get up, go down . . . the old gentle.
man was waiting for her in the blue room. Horrid, what
she was expected to do therel How had she ever come to
this place anyway? She'd been there a week . . . still
dazed and benumbed. If she made a fuss they all fell over
her. And where should she go? Her own father had
brought her here; he was so greedy for money. He wasn't
satisfied with what she had earned as a waitress. He told
her a fine-looking girl like her ought to earn a lot more.
Then old Mrs. Bacher, peddling kerchiefs and aprons,
came into the village and talked about the fine position
she could get for "pretty Julie."
Tears came fast . . . sobs that shook the strong young
body. She did not care what happened now.
She heard the door open . . . was the Madam herself
coming? She shook with terror but did not move. There
was no sound behind her, slowly she turned her head.
Holy Mary . . . that was a stranger woman standing
there, looking about the room.
"What are you howling about? Better get up and make
your bed," said Milada, looking at her watch. "Nine
o'clock and you're still lolling around up here? What's the
good of crying, girl? It doesn't get you anywhere."
Something in the tone touched the girl and started her
sobs again. Milada soothed, pleaded, 'vashed the swollen
face with eau de cologne from her own bag. "Come now
. . . work's the best consolation. Comb your hair . . .
smooth it nicely around your face. Isn't that how you
always wear it?" The smooth shining braids gave an
attractive frame to the young fresh face.
 THE RED HOUSE
"So countrified, they don't like it here," whispered
Julie amid tears.
"Looks all right. Leave it so," replied Milada curtly.
"Country girl, aren't you?.,
Julie nodded quickly, a gleam of happiness in the tear-
wet eyes.
uParen ts?"
"Only a father."
"Hm . . . Well, what did you do? I mean, what hap-
pened?"
The tall girrs head drooped; she shifted from one foot
to the other uneasily. "Hm, yes. Same old story I suppose.
You don't like it here?,
Julie's eyes swam in tears again, but she kept her voice
steady. "I'm so scared all the time.''
''Homesick?''
"No . . . But . . . ," her voice sank to a whisper, "I'm
scared. It gives me the creeps."
"That never killed anyone yet. The Madam a bit
sharp?"
"No• • • •"
"The girls tease you?"
"Some . . . but 'tain't so bad. . . ."
"Then why should you be so afraid?"
Julie felt as if she had gone to confession. Her voice
took on a solemn tone. "I'm so scared of everything here.
'Tain't right. It shouldn't be . . . what it is. What'll
come of me here? Oh . . . you won•t say nothing to her,
will you?" She trembled again.
An odd expression came into Milada's face. The white
drawn skin under her eyes, the folds that speak of much
sad experience, trembled a little and drew in wrinkles.
Julie's red terrified face faded and in its stead came
another, like it. Bina . . . dear Bina Michal . . . A
voice deep within her being tolled a warning to Milada.
 THE RED HOUSE
"You had to let Bina go to her fate, but you can make
good on this poor creature. Give her to her o'vn simple
honest life. Make good here what you could not do then."
She spoke quickly, calmly. "Pull yourself together,
Julie . . . I promise you that nothing shall happen to you
here, and that I will take you out of this house."
Julie sank to her knees, blubbering inarticulate thanks.
"But there's father. She pays him. Maybe he'll &.end me
back."
"You shall serve me in my own home. We'll send him
money. Now, don't say anything about this yet, and carry
()0.''
A flash of young hope broke out of the clear blue eyes.
This was no harlot, this was a simple child that could
.cry and laugh in a breath. For her the morrow of destruc.
tion was still to come, she could be saved.
"Come on now." Milada led the way out of the barracks.

§3
A WEEK passed, Milada still in The Red House, watch·
ing, her eyes everywhere.
Saturday had come aFQund again, the gayest day for
the Salon. Irma was down with a bad headache, Mrs.
Spizzari had asked Milada to take over her old duties for
that day.
"Hey you, Julie," said Nelly. "Your student will be
here again today. Can't you work without so much coach-
ing?" And she gave a few directions which cannot be set
down in cold print but which caused an outburst of de--
lighted laughter, and an hour of heckling for poor Julie.
But Julie had changed since her interview with Milada.
Hope of escape ever before her eyes, the natural simple
cunning and the avarice of the peasant awoke within her.
She'd been told that the Madame kept everything written
 THE RED HOUSE
down and that some day there'd be an accounting and she
could have her money. She must have earned at least a
thousand crowns by now. The thought of such a sum was
like strong drink to the slow peasant mind. She had but
one ambition, to have a rich "steady'' like Irma, or little
Lisl. She no longer slept until dark, but was one of the
first down, dressed, rouged, ready.
The evening wore away about as usual. Milada had on
her former simple black silk gown, the money pocket
hanging down over her lace apron. There had been an
unpleasant scene with Mitzi who was spreading rumors
that old Brenner, Gus' father, was "keeping" Milada.
Banking on her popularity with the Madam, Mitzi was
openly impertinent. But this time she was turned down;
Nelly was most anxious to keep in with her wealthy guest.
The evening wore away, about as usual . . . but the
atmosphere vastly different. Furniture, decorations, more
lavishly gorgeous than in the old days, but the whole tone
of the company coarser, more openly brutal. Two elderly
aristocrats came in, clearly of the sort to whom the coarser
pleasures appeal. The girls were loud, ordinary, shame-
less. Nelly led Julie, flushing hotly, to a particularly noisy
group around the two aristocrats. "She isn't used to this
yet," she whispered to one of the men. "Just a ft-esh little
country girl . . . virgin yet. . . ."
"Thanks, haven't any use for that, Nelly."
Two young men sprang up, caught Julie's arms, led
her to their table. "Here's a good cigarette. What?
Haven't smoked yet. Here . . ." Her awkwardness
amused them immensely. One had a brilliant idea.
"Here, Julie, now pull on this . . . see?" He demon-
strated inhaling the smoke. "It goes right down into your
stomach but when you drink something on top of it
that puts out the fire. Now try."
Obediently, Julie pulled at the cigarette, held her
294 THE RED HOUSE
breath, drank the wine. A second later she choked, gasped,
the wine sprayed out from lips and nostrils. She choked,
staggered, knocking over bottles and glasses. The amuse..
ment degenerated into an orgy of cruel baiting of poor
Julie, who stood helpless as a fettered steer amid its
torturers.
"Don't stand there like a stuck pig," screamed Mitzi.
"Get off that apron and dance:,
Fat Cora, the "creole/' lifted her skirt, showing bare
tattooed legs. "Lift up your shift, you dumb fool."
Julie's eyes widened. What was going on here? This
was worse than ever. Her strong young arms flung out in
protest, pushing drunken Cora to the floor.
But Mitzi crept up from behind, and loosened the waist
band of her skirt, tearing it off. "Dance, you poor fool,
dance."
Julie whirled, caught the falling garment with one
hand. The other shot out and landed audibly on Mitzi,s
cheek.
Mitzi's scream seemed to stop all the noise at once. A
heavy silence, sodden with a sense of shame, fell like a fog
over the drunken revellers. Men, here and there, made
scattered remarks of shamefaced apology or explanation.
They stared at Julie, fastening her skirt with shaking
fingers.
Odd to relate, it was Mitzi, recovered from the blow,
who helped Julie and tried to soothe her. Nelly Spizzari
waddled in hastily, and Julie stood quiet, expecting a
storm. But Nelly laid her hand on the girl's shoulder with
a broad smile. "Calm yourself, my dear . . . such tem-
perament! Go down into the blue room; there's a gentle-
man waiting there who is quite impressed by your be..
havior. A regular Joan of Arc, he said, and he sends you
this." A gold piece gleamed in Julie's hand. She gasped,
choked down a sob . . . and bent over Nelly's hand. "Go
 THE RED HOUSE 295
on down, my dear." Mrs. Spizzari's tone was quite mater-
nal, but her one eye furtively sought Milada, lvho was
handing the evening's bill to the group of three young
officers. . . .

The orgy continued until the dawn, then the Salon

emptied itself slowly. Milada sat by the stove with Mrs.
Spizzari, counting up the night's receipts. But the Madam
was absent-minded, even in so important a business. She
pushed the money into her own pocket carelessly, watch-
ing and listening for some movement in the corridor.
Suddenly she sat up straight, her one eye glistened with
satanic glee. Julie stood in the door. She wore a high-
necked pink housegown, her light hair smoothly combed,
her face shone in happiness. Behind her stood a man who
caught her arm and whispered something in her ear.
Julie shook her head, laughing.
Mitzi stood at the bar. She looked towards the door,
clapped her hands and shouted . . . "Well . . . my soul
and body , .. look who's here! I the doctor . . . Gus
,
Brenner. . . .
She glanced around the room, on her face the same
malicious grin that danced in Nelly Spizzari's one eye.
Milada's eyes rested for one instant on the couple at the
door. Hunted, flickering, they sought another focus . . .
an upward glance was like a prayer for strength. Then
slowly, calm, controlled, the gray eyes came back to the
door and the face of the man who stood there. He met .
them, the eyes that questioned, "What are you doing
here?" Met them with a threat and a grimace.
White teeth, greedy as those of a beast of prey, an-
swered her. Gus laughed loud, harsh. Milada's glance fell
back from iron bars.
Mitzi ran up. "Oh, Doctor Gus . . . what fun to see
you here again! That little beard is immensely becoming."
 THE RED HOUSE
Julie shouldered her aside. "Here's your coffee." Gazing
at Gus tenderly, she set the cup before him.
Julie was very happy. This handsome doctor loved her
. . . he told her he was coming every day, to see her.
She tried to be very polite, to speak correctly, to show
that she was not such a newcomer in the city. He whis-
pered back, played with a ribbon on her gown.
Suddenly he pushed the half-empty cup away. "What's
this? Don't I get anything decent to drink? Any of that
good Moselle they used to have here?"
Mrs. Spizzari clapped her hands, but Julie flew off her-
self to get the wine. She filled his glass, he touched it to
hers. "Prosit, little sweetheart."
Mitzi threw her arms around his neck from behind.
"You're really coming every day?"
"Yes, but not to you. This is my girl . . . she's the only
one I like." He caught Julie in his arm. Mitzi's mouth
opened for a laugh, but the look on his face stopped her.
She turned away, slowly.
Gus poured out wine, drank greedily. His thoughts
questioned, ..What am I doing here? Acting a part . . .
badly?"
He stood in the spell of the dark figure bending over
the account book; he writhed under the fearless glance of
the gray eyes that passed above him and around him,
directing the maid.
"Drink," he commanded, holding the glass to Julie's
lips.
"I . . . I never could drink much," she stammered.
"Drink, sing and be merry . . . life's so easy." His lips
moved, but his blue eyes stared out unseeing. "You just
have to . . . have to . . . wobble about . . . here and
there . . . till you find your . . . your focus. Then
nothing can happen to you, see?"
Julie stared at him stupidly. "Got a pain?" she queried
 THE RED HOUSE 297
anxiously. Mrs. Spizzari came up. "She's a bit unpolished
yet . . . from the country, Doctor. Innocent young thing
•.. healthy and honest."
Gus kissed Julie. "Amen. Nice little funeral oration,
Nelly. Call it a wedding . . . bring champagne. We must
celebrate." The corks popped. "Come, sweetheart, let's
drink a grand old souse . . . sweet wine for your sweet
throat. Find your focus, darling. Pereat to all acid stinging
insects. Wine, woman, or song . . . whichever it be.
Pereat .. .n He wiped his forehead. Fool . . . clown
. . . his thoughts ran on . . . trying to copy Joszi . . .
iustead of being untouched, you're showing her
what you suffer. This clarity cut through the
drawing up around him.
And she sat there, counting money, or pretending to,
giving orders, cooling his champagne. He laughed, loudly,
staccato . . . his wedding-lvine. Then, suddenly calm, to
Julie, "What's your name, girl?"
"Julie Hintersberger."
"Jule ·will do. Now, Jule, listen. I'm sleepy tonight,
tired from a long railroad journey. ru come tomorrow
. . . that's all arranged?" he turned nervously to Mrs.
Spizzari.
"Surely, Doctor. She'll have the blue room for herself."
"I'll send in cigarettes and books tomorrow. I have to
study . . . I can . . . study . . . best. . . ."
Milada rose and crossed the room to go out. His stark
glance held her rooted.
"Well, Jule . . . I'll be here tomorrow. Here's for to-
night." He tossed a bill onto the table where Milada stood.
Then, offering his arm to Julie he crossed the salon with
her. The girl beamed in triumph.
Mitzi stamped angrily, as the door closed behind them.
"What do you know about thatl" .. A glance fell on Milada.
"He needn•t have picked up such a lummox."
298 THE RED HOUSE
"Some men prefer innocence," remarked Nelly Spiz.
zari sententiously, steering towards the door.
Milada stood alone amid stale smoke, fumes of wine,
odor of dead flowers, amid a disorder of tumbled silken
cushions, ashes, bread crumbs and oyster shells. She
crossed to the window, opened it. A bell from the hospital
chapel tinkled through the air.
The timid sound cleared her thoughts. Why should
this farce shake me so? What do I fear? Am I the easier
wounded because my Will has found its goal? Can I lose
it, ever? She shook her head.
And yet, from the depth of a wound that had not
healed, burning pain welled up, threatened hard-won
security.
§4
HAPPY days came for Julie. The beautiful blue room
was hers, she could get up or sleep when she chose, she
could even go out, if she but asked it. She was an object
of interest in the house, an important personage. And
best of all, she had such a good man, such a nice man,
such a handsome man. And he came just for her. When
she told the others about him, she tried to be careless and
to jest as they did. But a hint of deeper feeling came into
her tone. The others laughed at her behind her back, but
she did not know it. Nelly Spizzari's respect for Julie's
rich "steady" held them in check.
Gus came every day to The Red House, every afternoon
at six. Julie waited for him in the corridor, led him to the
blue room, unpacked the parcels of good things he
brought. He asked her if she was comfortable and happy,
if the Madame was good to her. He asked after this one or
that one among the girls and once, fleetingly, mentioned
Miss Milada. Julie ans,vered carefully, conscientiously.
Beyond this they had not much to say to one another.
 THE RED HOUSE 299
Julie did not mind. She looked at his eyes, thought them
clear as the blue sky when the sun shone. He was finer,
cleverer than all the other men who came to The Red
House. Four days now he had been hers alone and Julie
loved him . . . loved with all the strength of her simple
heart. No, she would not have anything to do with any
other man now . . . never . . . not even if they came to
this blue room with her.
They went into the Salon at ten o'clock. He took supper
there, Julie sat beside him, no other girl dared to speak
to him. She waited on him. Gus had to laugh sometimes at
the care with which she made the table neat, wiped the
glass and the silver, asked after his wishes. She beamed
with delight when he told her to sit down and eat with
him.
He went away at eleven o'clock. Julie went to the door
with him. Standing there in the dark vestibule, her heart
full of loving thought of him, Julie forgot her assumed
"city ways" and murmured a " God keep you, sweetheart,"
in her own home dialect, softly into his ear.
She was allo\ved to go to her room then, without further
duties in the Salon. She collected his books, heaped them
neatly, cleared the table of cigarette ashes, then sat down
and dreamed happily. There was so much she wanted to
say to him . . . but couldn't quite find courage. He was
such a fine gentleman . . . but some day she \vould tell
him of her disgust with this place, and that she had so
little part in all the doings here. And that Miss Milada
wanted to take her out of it all. But now she didn't want
to go, she just wanted to be here . . . with him . . .
would tell him next day. But next day, as before, she
sat tongue-tied, adoring, could only love him with
dim eyes, with folded hands.
Gus' eyes, strained, flickering, glided unseeing over the
adoration of this simple soul. He cared as little for what
 THE RED HOUSE
she offered in revering glances, as he cared for the blos-
soming young body, quivering in ecstasy under his lightest
touch.
§5
MrLADA, questioning Kessler and others, could learn
little of the reason for Gus' presence. Three days after her
arrival in The Red House, he had come back from Berlin
unexpectedly, with light luggage. He was not living at
home, but in a small hotel, paying his bill every day, as if
planning to leave at any time.
She could learn nothing from Joszi. He had not re-
turned. Doubtless he knew of Gus' campaign of revenge,
but was powerless to prevent it. As she did, he let things
go their way. She decided it were better not to try to
find him.
She knew that Gus had come in revenge, to expose her
treachery to all the world . . . so must he feel. Did he
come as honest opponent, she was willing to take up the
combat.
But why should he drag this simple stupid Julie into
the whirlpool of his anger? Was it to show her that the
first best little peasant who came his way could take her,
Milada's, place in his life?
0 cruel vanity! To humble her, he had to break and
wound a trusting innocent heart . . . just that he might
say . . . no woman ever conquered me?
When her thoughts carried her far, far into the past and
her own feelings, Milada would suddenly become aware
that she had forgotten something, left something by the
wayside . . . Julie. . . .
She shuddered as she watched and realized how the girl
drank deep, blissfully, from his assumed emotion, realized
how cruel and crushing the breakdown when this security
was tom from her life.
 THE RED HOUSE 301

Bina, too, went to pieces from the betrayal of those she

loved. Could she save this girl from a similar fate?
She tried to talk to Julie, but the girl avoided her. She
listened to the gossip of the house, learned that Gus had
given Julie a ring, a photograph of himself, that he had
promised to take her to Berlin as his "housekeeper." She
followed it all with trembling premonition, sure that she
knew the truth beneath. He did all this . . . lived as he
had lived there with her, knowing that she would hear of
it . . . knn\ving, or hoping, that he might brutally tear
away what shimmer of beauty, what bloom there still
clung about her memories.

Gus sat over his books, in the blue room. Julie, quiet,
lvith clasped hands, by his side. She did not realize that
his unseeing eyes stared beyond the printed page.
When he closed the book, she began to talk, timidly;
telling him of her home, her family, then of the girls in
The Red House . . . flattered by his silence.
Suddenly he sprang up. She paused, lips open on a
word, fearing she was boring him. But he only said, "Go
down, ask the Madam if you may go out with me for a
drive. It's so close here."
She laughed delightedly, ran down to the office. Mrs.
Spizzari, sitting there with Milada, nodded ready assent.
"That, too," thought Milada. "Nothing missing in the
program."
Later, before they returned, Milada had made her
decision. She would meet him boldly, ask him to spare the
girl. "You shall not make her unhappy . . . take her from
me," she would tell him. "I chose her for my own life,
chose her to save, long before your stupid plot caught her
in its whirlpool."
She felt the malicious looks of the others, who were
gloating over the situation. That was all so immaterial.
 THE RED HOUSE
Only this poor little simple soul must not be ground
between the mill of his revenge and her steadfaStness.

Milada's decision came too late.

Julie came home alone . . . creeping up the stairs red..
eyed, her face swollen with weeping.
"Where is he?" asked Mrs. Spizzari.
"He's gone," Julie sobbed, holding the fur cloak around
her. "Gone back to Berlin . . . but he's coming again.
He ain't leavin' me here." There was such deep feeling in
her tone that the grouped girls forgot to mock, stood
silent, embarrassed.
Mrs. Spizzari rose quickly. "Did he pay you?"
"Yes," murmured Julie, fumbling in the bosom of her
gown. She took out a bit of paper, opened it, dropped
something bright on the table.
Mrs. Spizzari caught up the gold coin, looked at it with
sudden suspicion, put her glass to her one eye. Then she
gasped, choked, and a flood of invective poured down over
Julie's bowed head.
"You damn cow, you infernal ass . . . you let yourself
be tricked like that. You fool me into treatin' you like a
princess . . . and then he gives you a . . . a souvenir."
Her breath gave out, the coin jingled to the floor, her
upraised hand fell roughly across Julie's face.
A jangle of exclamations and questions drowned Julie's
cry. Nelly Spizzari shook the helpless girl brutally.
Milada rose from her chair. The gold coin lay on the
floor. She had recognized it at once. She could have caught
it up, and saved herself from what was to come. But she
would not. This, then, was his purpose? His wounded
vanity needed just this last touch of poor revenge. Very
well, he should have it, to the full.
Her cool gray eyes rested on poor Julie, and softened to
comprehending pity.
 THE RED HOUSE
One of the girls bent to pick up the coin. "What's this?"
But Mitzi, suspecting, snatched it from her, studied it.
"Ha . . . this is great!" she shouted. "Spring . . . Ig.
. . . remember . . ." She turned it. "To Gus from Mil-
ada. u The others crowded, Mitzi explained it all, pointing
to Milada who stood quietly while the storm raged over
her.
"And he made a monkey of her," cried one, nudging
Julie.
"Oh, wait till I tell Rudi and Ferdy. They'll die laugh-
ing,'' gasped Mitzi.
Milada stood unmoved. He had thrown their love to
this pack; they had the right to tear it for their fun. Still
. . . this, too, was purification.
The Madam's voice shrilled through the tumult. "What
did he say, the cad?" she yelled, shaking Julie. "He's got
,,
to pay . . . pay.
"He said," gasped Julie, struggling with rising sobs, "he
said . . . the lady there . . . Miss Milada . . . would
change it . . . for money."
Her voice was smothered in a new storm of laughter.
Mitzi fell to the floor, writhing in sheer delight.
Milada opened her black money-pocket, examined the
contents, shook her head as if annoyed, and left the room
quickly, not even closing the door behind her.
Nelly Spizzari sank into a chair. Now she understood.
But she wasn't interested in these "romances," she wanted
her money. Praise be, that scamp had paid for all he ate
and drank every day.
Milada returned, stood before Mitzi. "Give me that
coin." Mitzi let it slide to the floor, pushed it with her
foot. "There it is," she replied impertinently.
Milada picked up the gold piece, wiped it carefully,
laid two banknotes on Mrs. Spizzari's lap. "That will
do it."
304 THE RED HOUSE
The Madam's falcon eye had recognized the amount
at once. She sat up, glowered at the still laughing girls.
"Stop that nonsense, you pack. March out of here ..•
customers might come any minute."
The girls trooped out joyfully, eager for their chat in
the barracks. This was some subject for gossip!
Rigid, her pretty face red, her brows drawn, Julie let
them pass her. Every word thrown back at her fell like
a brutal blow on her heart. She made no answer. What
she say? Only to be alone in her room . . . that
was all she could think of.
A deep sobbing sigh welled up from her heart.
Mrs. Spizzari assumed an air of hurt motherliness.
uwell, and what are we going to do with you now, Jule?
You aren't good for much. I'll sell you cheap. The
guests laugh at you, the girls tease you." Turning to
Milada, "'t\Tho'll take up with her now? She just can't
be trained.''
Nelly Spizzari really was embarrassed at the moment.
Julie had been in The Red House for two weeks and
had made herself ridiculous most of that time. She
wasn't a bit of good. She couldn't be sent out into the
street; the very first patrolman would take her off, and
then they'd find out that Mrs. Bacher had tricked her.
She couldn't be sent into the Provinces either. There
was the father who came into town to get his monthly
payments. If Jule were not here, there wouldn't be any
money; he'd make a fuss and it would all come out. What
was there to do? She really did not knovv.
"I have a suggestion," said Milada. "Keep her here, as
chambermaid. Dolly can't do it alone. Keep her for the
serving and I'll train J ule for the rest of the work. You'll
save the wages for an extra woman. J ule is strong and
neat."
Hm . . . yes, that was an idea. Really was the way out.
 THE RED HOUSE
A few weeks as chambermaid, then the girl will have
recovered from this blow and be useful again. "Pack your
things," she commanded Julie, "and get up into the attic
room. Thank this lady here, and let me have an end of
your foolishness., She rang for the janitress who took
Julie under her arm with a mocking grin.
The Madam returned to a leisurely sipping of her
coffee, and Milada left the room.
Julie was soon settled in the "Rat Room," where
Milada had once housed. She stood indifferent while the
others milled around her, packing and unpacking. "Why
don't they go?" she thought. All she wanted was to be
alone.
Finally they did go, the janitress last, with the words,
"Mrs. Bacher'll come for the pink dress. I'll wake you
tomorrow morning before I go to bed. Be careful with
your candle here."
The door creaked, Julie was alone.
Pale terror clutched at her throat. What was there for
her but death? She could hang herself, the way her aunt
did when the house burned down. Her wide blue eyes
sought the hook above the window. Yesterday . . . just
at this hour, Gus was with her. And now? He had left
her, he didn't care whether she lived or died. He'd done
what he wanted to . . . whatever it was. She couldn't
understand. She dropped beside her little old trunk. In
the bottom was the rope with which it had been tied. She
threw it out on the floor and began to disentangle the
knots.
The attic stairs creaked. She faced the door defiantly.
Milada opened it, looked about, caught the situation at a
glance.
Yes, she had come just in time. "That's right, get this
place a hit orderly and you'll be comfortable," she began.
..1 know this little room. WQ.en I was a little girl I had
 THE RED HOUSE
flower pots and my bird cage there on the window sill.
The sun shines in here at five o'clock all summer." As she
spoke, she unfolded the clean coarse linen over her arm,
and made the bed.
Julie did not move. But anger, wild, passionate, drove
hot blood to her brain.
"What do you want of me, all of you?" she screamed.
"Let me alone! I don't want to see any of you." She
struck out, throwing Milada back on the bed, her head
against the walL A moment's dizziness held Milada, then
she rose. "Juliel"
"Leave me alone, I say."
Milada caught her arm, turned her so that they stood
face to face. "Julie, didn't you know the truth . . . about
him . . . and me? Did you really think that man meant
to hurt you) to fool you1 Nonsense. You are nothing to
him, you are only Julie whom he rented from Mme. Spiz-
zari for a few days. You were the first that caught his eye
here. Any other would have done just as well. He did not
intend to hurt you. It was all planned for me . . . to
make me suffer, to strike me to the heart. Listen." She
held the girl's hand. "What do you care for Gus? You can
forget him. You had him for just five days, a customer
paying the Madam for the accommodation. What did you
imagine? That you could hold him for a year? Or perhaps
for life? Silly girl . . . a whole night with one man is an
event here. They hire a girl for an hour here as they
would a horse. Don't you understand? Yes, it's a dangerous
place for a girl as foolish and as soft as you are." Milada's
· voice was low now, but the words came clear and sharp to
Julie's ear.
Julie's anger dulled, faded to weariness. The rope
dropped from her hands to the floor. Then she looked
into Milada's face. Gus and this lady . . . why should
she step between them? It was all true. They were the
 THE RED HOUSE
chief players in this game. She was only in the way. She
had nothing more to hope from this man. Her glances
flickered about the room, fell on the rope. What was she
about to do? Holy Mother of God! The sin! She fell to
her knees and folded her hands.
.. Gus is gone," she stammered. "And I loved him. Holy
Mary! I don't know what I'm doing. I wanted to die."
She clung to Milada. "Oh, ifs good you came. You're
kind. I . . . I don't know what it all means.''
Milada laid her hand lightly on the girl's head. "Silly
child, rm not angry. Calm yourself now, I'll keep my
promise and take you away from here. And you won•t
have anything more to do with the Salon, nor the guests.
You don't belong there. You'll have honest work to do,
I'll teach you how to keep house. Will you like that?"
"Oh, yesl., The tone came clear and true from Julie's
heart.
§6
ARoUND Christmas a fat envelope came for Milada. It
was from her lawyer friend in Steiermark and contained
plans, blue-prints, sketches from which to choose a design
for her Children's Home. Happily she studied the plans,
noting comments here and there. In her dreams that night
the building stood complete, ringing with children's
voices, smiling faces in all the rooms.
There was cause for pleasure in The Red House too,
even under the Spizzari system. The experiment with
Julie was a success. The girl was a ready and eager worker,
neat and efficient. Her attic chamber took on an air of
neat cheeriness. Days of hard regular work, nights of
sound sleep, brought roses to the round cheeks, banished
the look of terror from the blue eyes. Julie laughed and
sang at her work. The other servants liked her, the girls
in the dormitories made her their confidant.
 THE RED HOUSE
But if any guest, meeting her in the corridors, neat and
trim in her peasant working dress, stopped her to make
advances, she would run a·w·ay in terror. Could she not
escape at once, a good hard smack from a firm capable
hand 'vas her unequivocal answer.
The only fly in her ointment of contented days and
quiet nights was an occasional appraising glance from the
Madam's one eye, a touch of the Madam's hand on her
round young arm and breast. Nelly Spizzari was thinking
ahead; here was material of money-making value. Simple
as Julie was, she felt the threat of a change in the life that
suited her, and dreaded it.
Milada soothed and cheered her, repeating her promise
that when the Spring came and building commenced,
they would both go to the mountains. With this prospect
ever in mind, the rhythm of harlotry whirled and roared
unheeded over the head of the wholesome simple peasant
girl.
§7
DuRING the first weeks of March Milada took a trip to
Steiermark to make definite arrangements for building as
soon as the weather penni tted. Julie had seen the pic-
tures of the house, and her eager interest ran ahead to the
accomplishd fact.
But she was vaguely unhappy, vaguely frightened at
Milada's absence. She sensed the want of a protecting
hand. "Don't be long. I wish you was back a'ready," she
sighed.
The Madam seemed more interested than ever in her,
and one morning the cook told her to take in Mrs. Spiz-
zari's coffee.
Julie refused, that was Dolly's work. "Silly thing. She
ain't goin' to eat you," sneered the cook. Julie had to obey.
Nelly Spizzari lay in bed. As Julie set the tray down the
 THE RED HOUSE
one eye rested approvingly on her finely built body. The
Madam laid aside her newspaper. "Bina Michal was a
bigger gawk than you. Now she•s drinking champagne
with the officers in Budweis and living finel"
Julie ran out quickly, pale to the lips. Oh, if Miss Mil-
•da would only come back . . . this was her thought.
Her terror of being dragged back to service in the Salon
grew with every day. She avoided the Madam wherever
abe could. Her pleasure in her work lessened; it seemed
hard now, dragging at her vitals. Her healthy country
appetite forsook her; she would sit staring at her plate but
when she tried to eat, something within her rebelled.
One day, when she saw Dolly tearing at a piece of meat
with sharp teeth, her whole inner being rose in revolt.
She had just time to run out to the courtyard. The sharp
tone of the shrilling bell, as the door slammed behind
her, aroused the Madam's attention. She came out.
..1 don't want you working so hard," she said amiably,
running her hand over the firm rounded shoulder of the
hightened girl. "After dinner, wash up and dress in your
best. You'll have to help a little in the business."
Julie stared after her, then groaned, pressed both hanch
to her body, and disappeared into a dark corner. When
Vie came out, her face was green, deep lines drew down
between nose and mouth.
She did not go back to the kitchen, sent word that she
was sick and remained in bed, her head buried in the
pillows, from which a deep groan arose now and then.
Mrs. Spizzari came to look for her that evening. There
was a good customer come who had a fancy for "Nature
in the Raw," and Julie, in peasant gown and cap, would
have been just the thing for him. She did not believe in
this "sickness." But one look at the girl's face showed her
that the "Nature" effect would be impossible, for this
evening at least.
 THE RED HOUSE
When she was gone, Julie stretched out comfortably
and slept for a couple of hours. She felt much better and
very hungry.
The cook found her some bits of bread, but both she
and Dolly began to reproach Julie for her foolishness.
"Here she might be sittin' up there dressed up fine
instead of emptyin' slops and scrubbin' floors," remarked
Dolly.
"Ain't she the fool, so scared of a man."
''An' how did she know? Maybe it was Dr. Gus again."
Julie sat eating, her eyes do,vn. What were they driving
at? They had been good to her before, treated her with
comradeship. She did not know that the Madam had
talked to them and backed up her arguments with rich
tips.
"Say, you don't know when you're well off," began the
cook again. "I been in places where you got to take up
with men who ain't got a shirt to their backs. Say, but
they stink! And you got to be nice to them. Nothin' o'
that sort ever comes here. All nice and clean gentlemen,
they are."
"Ain't much use objectin' when the Madam wants
somethin'," said Dolly, philosophically.
Julie knew that. She had seen girls who protested
against this or that customer, forced into it, locked in the
room with him. That's what they'd do with her. She
didn't seem to have a bit of strength left. What was the
matter with her? Something rose in her throat, she loos-
ened her belt. No, she would fight to the last notch. . . .
She rose, staggered, dizzy, back against the wall. "Maria
and Joseph, what's the matter?" asked Dolly.
"I d9n't know. I'm so dizzy . . . so cold." She slumped
to the floor, then roused to find the cook throwing cold
water in her face.
 THE RED HOUSE
uAw, you go back to bed, you're sick, you are." Dolly
might be bribable but she had a soft heart.
Slolvly, painfully, step by step, Julie crept up the stairs.
She closed the door, pulled a chair against it, then sank
onto the bed, drew up her knees and groaned.
She had never felt like this before. Was it terror of
what the Madam might force her into, dragging at her
vitals? Disturbing visions danced before her eyes until
merciful slumber enwrapped her.

§8
THREE days later, Milada returned to The Red House.
She found Julie pale, haggard, dragging herself about,
the once merry eyes swollen, drawn in a network of
wrinkles. "Why, Julie, what's the matter."
"Just feelin' kinder bad," replied Julie, so pleased at
Milada's retum that her words rang like a message of
cheer. "But it's all right now, when you're here."
"She's had a touch of the influenza," said the Keller girl,
whom the Madam had delegated to look after Julie. "Sev-
of 'em sick with it."
"Can you do your work?" asked Milada.
"She helps."
Julie nodded gratefully towards the Keller girl, a mis-
erable distorted specimen of crushed womanhood, a pretty
sad face in a frail pain-drawn body. The girl smiled at
Milada l\ ith a look in her face as of worship. Shordy
7

before Milada's departure for her last trip the Keller girl's
mother brought her daughter's baby, a frail nine-month
old mite, into The Red House, and declared she couldn't
keep it any longer. To get the girl into her house Nelly
Spizzari had promised to pay for the child's keep. But the
Keller girl \Vas a bad bargain. Her sickly body did not
recover from an unfortunate confinement and lack of
312 THE RED HOUSE
proper care. She did not attract the customers and Nelly
refused to pay out one cent more for an unprofitable piece
of "material." The poor girl was desperate. Milada hap-
pened by, grasped the situation and took charge. She
offered to pay for the care of the child until her own
Home was ready. Then the mite should be the first
inmate.
Marie Keller was pitifully grateful, and nodded eagerly
when Milada made her promise to say nothing to Mrs.
Spizzari. "No, indeed," she vowed. "But when the kid's
safe with you, I'll go out to service again. She won't keep
me here, I'm not any good to her."
The plans were chosen, workers and material selected.
Building was to begin as soon as the ground could be dug.
And here was one little soul to be saved, one little life
started on the way to better things. This was to be Mil-
ada's last visit to The Red House. Very shortly, she and
Julie would start for the mountains. She would come back
to the city only to fetch the Keller baby when the Home
was ready.
§g
JULIE awoke from troubled dreams. In the first dazed
moments the noise downstairs seemed startlingly near. She
sprang up, staggered back against the bed. The little room
whirled around her. What was that? Suddenly she pressed
both hands to her body. Her eyes widened. Her breath
seemed to stop. Yes . . . she felt it, a tiny movement. Oh,
God . . . now she knew. Holy Mother in Heaven! Could
this be the truth?
And she had been afraid of death. Why, death would be
blessed release, blessed refuge. How could she endure this
. . . the shame, the disgrace, day by day until they would
all see, all know what was the matter with her. And her
father . . . he would kill her.
 THE RED HOUSE
Like a hunted thing Julie burst open the door, ran
down the dark stairs to Milada's room. She knocked
timidly, clung frantically to the door, called, "Miss Mil-
ada . . . Miss Milada," then closed her eyes, fell back
against the wall.
The key within turned, the door opened. Julie almost
fell into the room, lit only by the gleam of a single candle. '
"Julie, what's the matter? You shouldn't be here with bare
feet, when you're ill."
"Oh, Miss Milada, don't be angry," stammered Julie,
folding her hands in dumb pleading. Tears rolled un-
heeded down her cheeks.
"Sit down here." Milada pushed a chair towards her.
•'Been feeling bad?"
"All night."
"Hadn't I better send for the doctor?"
Julie caught at her arm. "I don't need no doctor. I . . .
I know what's the matter." Her voice sank. "I . . . I'm
going . .. to have . . . a baby."
Milada quivered as if struck. Sobbing, Julie went on,
"I know, my sister was just this way. Oh, Holy Mother!
And the disgrace!"
"It's not disgrace," said Milada strongly. "But . . .
you're sure?"
"Yes.. I t . . . 1"t moved" .
Milada stepped back a pace. A stream of new feeling
tore through her whole being, shaking to its foundations
her reserve, her self-control.
"J u 1·1e • • • 1"t 1·s • • . G us' cht"ld?"
A sob answered her. "Yes, Miss. I haven't been with
any one else . . . not one of 'em has even touched me
since he went away."
"Don't cry, dear. It's nothing to cry about." Milada's
voice \Vas uncertain, timidly she stroked the girl's hair,
timidly, awkwardly. To her innermost fiber Milada was
 THE RED HOUSE
gripped, shaken by new emotion. New . . . what she now
heard . . . her own words . . . new.
"Oh, Miss Milada, what shall I do? I can't live through
it . . . such a disgrace."
Milada bent over her. "What? Foolish girl, it's no dis-
grace." Her very heart opened, its emotion poured out
over the drooping figure on the chair. "It's a great, great
happiness, don't you know that? A happiness of which I
never dared to dream." The words came softer and softer
until they ended in a sob.
Milada wept. . . .
Calmer after a while, she spoke in childlike amaze, and
yet amused at this amaze. "I never . . . thought of any-
thing like thatl A . . . child . . . here in The Red
Jiouse. It's a miracle."
"But what'll she say, the Madam? And father?"
"Hushl It doesn't concern them at all. You come with
me-you and your baby. And, oh . . . 've will make life
pleasant for him, this little baby. He shall be happy., She
paced the room with long eager strides. "It's just . . .
just as if . . . when you think of it . . . just as if all my
life, all the hardship, the suffering . . . just so that when
it was needed I had a roof for that little thing there."
"Oh . . . if I may," Julie's eyes followed the moving
figure anxiously, "if you'll take me in, ru work . . . for
the .child.,
Milada halted, looked down at her. "Yes, we'll both
have to \vork hard. It's just us two and there are so many
poor mothers, so many children we can save from a cruel,
evil life. Oh, Julie, the corners of misery into which I
have stared! This will be my family; I have no other. Oh,
now I see my way clear before me."
She went to the window, opened it, returned. "Yes,
Julie, I'll go out after the others. But yours-you'll bring
 THE RED HOUSE
it to me, will you not? For, when you look at it, I have
earned a right to this child.''
Julie looked up at her, calm, strong. "I'm nothin' but
a poor girl, I can't pay you for this. But maybe . . . my
child, sometime . . ." Then she slumped, pale, face
drawn. The excitement of the night had been too much.
Milada led her to the bed, soothed her, stroked her
brow until she sank into sleep. Then she stood looking
down at the quiet face.
A fine line of pain drew down from nose-root to upper
lip, wiping out the heavy animalism of its habitual ex-
pression. It was as though an invisible hand had passed
over these immature features, giving them dignity, reality.
The mother-soul?
Julie breathed calmly, relaxed in sleep.
Milada sank into the wonder of this hour. Her thought
formed a shimmering palace around this hour, holding
it fast, for ever.
Her love for Gus, those days of glow and bloom . . .
they had seemed hopeless, lost. But here they found exis-
tence, continuation. Here their truest essence and content
ripened into life.
Her own body, wearied, degraded, could not create the
miracle. Then came this other, young, strong, clean; con-
ceived, and gave to her the child of which she had not
dared dream.
Humbly, reverently, she saw the Truth. Nothing is ever
lost, no emotion, no thought. All has its own place, its
deep controlling predetermination. Of all the proud deeds
tolvards which Milada's will had striven remained only
this: the salvation of a defenceless child. It breathed there,
moved in the body of this peasant girl, the laughingstock
of The Red House.
The work of love, hom of her own struggle for
self-preservation, would smooth life's pathway for this
 THE RED HOUSE
little child. From mysterious beginnings to mysterious
fruition, this child would be blossom and harvest of her
earthly pilgrimage.

Oh, Miracle of Mysteries . . . holding in one drop of

dew all the glory of the Light.

Milada heard the janitress coming upstairs to awaken

Julie. She herself went to meet the woman.
day began. . . .
And on this day the first spade broke the earth on
which the new house should stand.

THE END